


Lacuna

by BunnyLass



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Bottom Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Has Self-Worth Issues, Dean is called Dior for story/plot purposes, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Insecure Dean Winchester, M/M, Mpreg, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Castiel (Supernatural), Omega Dean Winchester, Omega Verse, Pining, Post Mpreg, Prince Castiel (Supernatural), Prostitute Dean Winchester, Protective Castiel (Supernatural), Sex Worker Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Top Castiel (Supernatural), Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, True Mates, eventually lmao, not between Cas and Dean!, not forever though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28606113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BunnyLass/pseuds/BunnyLass
Summary: It's no wonder Castiel, Third Alpha Prince of England, feels the need for some freedom and independence when there are constant expectations thrown at him. So when the opportunity to leave everything for a few months appears before him, he takes it.Freedom feels amazing. But he never expected to find something even better.Dior is a high-end omega prostitute at one of the better brothels in Paris. He's not sure how life has managed to fuck him over like this.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 29
Kudos: 53





	1. Heads and Tails

**Author's Note:**

> // LACUNA (n.) = A BLANK SPACE, A MISSING PART //
> 
> 'Ello everyone!
> 
> Welcome to my first ever multi-chapter fic :] 
> 
> I am both very excited and nervous to be sharing this with you. Omegaverse is my favourite trope, and after so many of them read, I thought it was only natural I have a go myself. I've had this idea swirling in my head for a while and it's been both fun and stressful trying to flesh it out.
> 
> I have written 4 chapters of this as of yet, coming to around 33k words and I've barely scraped the surface. I don't want to estimate something completely inaccurate only to either overwhelm or disappoint you... But if you're anything like me, you'll still want some sort of idea so my word count approximation would be somewhere around 150k for the full fic.
> 
> I am currently writing chapter 5 of this but I don't have an outline for the story - that's not how my writing process works - so I can't estimate how many chapters, I'm afraid. All I can promise is lots of fluff and lots of angst and all the slow burn, pining goodness we all love when it comes to these two idiots!
> 
> All art you'll see here is mine! You can find my social media on my profile here if you're interested - at the moment I mostly draw SPN fanart. I don't have a release schedule for my chapters, but I will try not to be longer than 3 weeks between (at the very longest!!). It might seem like a lot but the chapters tend to be pretty long, and I have two wonderful betas that go through my writing, and on top of that, I have art I need to do for every chapter. 
> 
> I know WIPs tend to be scary, so if you're giving this a go please know you have my undying gratitude!!! Kudos and comments are literal fuel for me and it'll push me to work and work and work and get them chapters out quicker! :DDD
> 
> My wonderful Betas are Xini and Aankanksha - two lovely ladies I've met through discord and have done me the absolute solid of making sure I don't make a laughing stock of myself with my writing LOL.
> 
> Before we go into the story, there's a few things I want to say in order to try and avoid confusion:
> 
> 1\. This is a period piece (starts mid 19th century) and I have done my research as much as I could, but if you're looking for a fic that is 100% historically accurate - this isn't it. I advise you to take most details with a pinch of salt and remember this is a/b/o so it's not set in our universe to begin with. Some things might be more or less advanced for this time period due to the added variable of the a/b/o genders.
> 
> 2\. As Castiel is a prince of England, you will find a lot of English words thrown about, such as pants (which is underwear and not trousers). If a word seems out of place or not quite right, try googling the English meaning - if it still doesn't make sense, let me know and I will fix it!
> 
> 3\. If you've read all of the tags, you will have seen that for a part of the story Dean will be addressed by others and identify himself as "Dior" rather than Dean. It's the same character but the name change is a plot device and central to his character. We'll get back to his all-American cutesy name, don't worry!
> 
> 4\. On that note, I did make small changes to some names in order to make them sound either more French or English. Again, still the same characters but needed for some sort of continuity.
> 
> 5\. As for the languages they speak, if only English characters are present - then they are speaking English. If there are only French characters - they only speak french. if there's a mix, then it depends on which country they are currently in. Some characters might choose to throw some French/English phrases or words in their dialogue (such as Bal who is half English and half French) and these will be highlighted by putting them in ITALICS. Any changes outside of this will be made aware to you in the narrative! (everything is written in English, but this is for your imagination and how I see things unfolding)
> 
> 6\. Any actual French in this fic is 100% google translate because I know absolutely no French lol. If you're a French-speaking individual, I apologise for probably making your eyes bleed...
> 
> 7\. I have made some blueprints for the brothel D works in for the readers out there who love some actual visual cues :) you can find them here: https://wynterfiel.tumblr.com/post/636678636042321920/this-is-a-blueprint-for-my-destiel-fanfiction-im PLEASE ignore some of the measurements. They're completely off - I didn't measure anything, just put stuff together :]
> 
> I can't think of anything else to add for now. If anything comes to mind, I will update tags/notes as appropriate!
> 
> Enjoy! <3

### London, late November 1869

For as long as he can remember, Prince Castiel has loathed being woken from slumber by anyone. When he was a child, he’d start crying until he was allowed to return to bed, regardless of the fact he would wake himself up thirty minutes later. He supposes it was one of the reasons he was regarded as peculiar by his family and subjects. The servants and family have long since learned to wait for his quarter’s bell to ring and to not disturb him needlessly.

He did wake up with the first light of dawn and did not waste much time before alerting the servants of his wakefulness. Whilst waiting for his housemaid to arrive, Castiel rose from his bed and shivered when he emerged from the warm safety of his duvets and blankets. If he hurried, he’d have had the time to start his own fire, but alas, such was not his luck this morning come.

A knock came right as he was about to reach for the tinder box. “Good morning, Your Royal Highness. May I enter?” the maid asked.

“Yes, you may.” Castiel sighed as the maid gasped when she raised her head upon entering.

“Your Highness, you must not! I will be severely berated if the head maid ever found out I let you light the fire with your precious hands.” the maid frantically said, hurrying to Castiel’s side.

“You must know I would never let Tessa chastise you for my shortcomings, Hannah.” he replied kindly, gently grabbing one of Hannah’s hands in both of his. “Fear not, she will not find out and I would be incredibly grateful if you allowed me to assist you, at least with this.”

The young maid looked down at their hands cautiously, accustomed to the way her Prince did not care for decorum when in his own chambers. Taking her hand out of his gently, she rubbed both her palms on her apron and curtsied “As you wish, my Prince. Please go ahead and light the fire whilst I prepare your bath. Would you like a masking herb blend today or plain soap?”

“I have many visits to make today. It will have to be plain soap. Please do make Alfie aware I am awake and will require his assistance after I have bathed.”

With another curtsey, Hannah left Castiel on his own so she could make way to his private bathroom and start whatever concoction she did that procured the most amazing of baths. He lit his fireplace quickly and with ease, having done this many a time before, to his family’s chagrin. He did not allow himself a lot of freedom, but he craved not feeling like a glass bird in one of his mother’s greenhouses. Castiel watched the flames get substantially bigger for a minute before heading to his desk and sitting down. He had been up late last night wrapping up any of his outstanding responsibilities before his leave in a week. Thankfully, not a lot remained to be done, yet he wished to have them all filed and ready to go either tonight or tomorrow.

It was with his head buried in work, quill scratching across paper noisily that Hannah returned to his main sleeping chamber.

“It’s all ready for you, Your Highness. I have paid great care to have it at your desired 40 degrees.” She announced, shaking Castiel from his work. He allowed himself a small smile. Hannah had been personally attending to him for the past year and has learned all of his quirks and preferences with amazing speed. 

“Thank you, Hannah. You may leave me to bathe on my own today as well.” he told her, not looking up from his work.

There was a moment of hesitation from his maid before she decided against reminding him that a man of his position should let his maids assist him. Hannah knew him better than that. “As you wish, Your Highness. I will let Alfie know to join you soon.” 

Castiel quickly finished off the sentence he was writing and rose from his chair. He disposed of his nightshirt quickly, letting it fall next to his bath, and lowered himself slowly in the hot and misty water. When finally submerged up to his neck, a sigh escaped his lips. He felt most human in the bath. He allowed his mind to slow down and focus on the way the warmth enclosed him, the way the water rippled when he moved and watched the steam rise unperturbed from the water’s top. After what he considered an appropriate amount of time of soaking, Castiel picked up the soap and cloth that was left for him. He lathered it up, only slightly bothered that no fragrance accompanied the suds. 

It was Royal protocol that any alpha member of the Royal Family may not leave the palace with their scents covered or in any way altered. A rule that Castiel truly despised for its antiquity, having been put in place by his great-grandfather who was thought to have had a small _appendage_ and wished his scent would make up for it. He laughed to himself, thinking of how many other palace rules must exist because some member of the family needed their ego stroked. 

He was just about finished when another knock on his door came. “It’s Alfie, Your Highness. I bid you a good morning. May I come in?”

Castiel had to raise his voice in order for Alfie to hear him all the way to his main doors. “Yes, please do come in! I was just about finished.”

Alfie made his way to the bath and offered Castiel a very low bow, with an arm tightly clasped behind his back. He stopped the unsavory urge to roll his eyes at his footman. Surely, he should know by now decorum is to be ignored in his chambers?

“Seeing as today you are to attend a number of formal functions at the parliament and court, shall I go ahead and select an appropriate attire whilst you dry yourself, Your Highness?” Alfie said, raising from his bow and gave Castiel a warm smile.

“That sounds agreeable. Thank you, Alfie.” Castiel got out of the bath just as Alfie rounded around the corner. He dried himself with a towel, draped his dressing gown around him, and proceeded to the sink to brush his teeth. He was very fond of this new creation. A ‘toothbrush’ they called it. It was a welcome change to the twig they had to use up until a few years back. Finishing with his oral care, he headed to where Alfie was arranging his outfit neatly on the bed.

“Does this suit your tastes, your Highness? I have chosen a matching, single-breasted navy waistcoat and trousers, paired with a white dress shirt. Brown and navy oxfords and a navy, narrow cravat. I have not chosen a frock as I am aware you are impartial to your beige coat.” Alfie informed him, carefully setting down some suspenders and a pair of gloves.

Castiel gave his footman a smile in approval and asked for his help in getting dressed. He knew the poor man would appreciate it, not having his Prince turn his help away.

“Are their Majesties awake? What about my siblings?” Castiel asked, sitting as still as possible whilst his garments were tugged and wrapped around him expertly.

“I believe their Majesties are already in the dining hall with their Royal Highnesses, the Crown Princes. Prince Gabriel’s footman is currently trying to locate him as he was not in his chambers this morning.” Both Alfie and Castiel smirked at that. If he knew his older brother at all, the servants will probably find him in the stables, having a good nap. “Princess Annael is currently getting dressed by her handmaiden and will be joining the dining hall shortly.” the footman finished.

“Then let us not keep them waiting anymore,” Castiel said, grabbing his favourite beige coat and folding it perfectly over his forearm.

They headed out of his room together, Alfie two steps behind. He opened the door to the dining hall for Castiel and bowed. Castiel saw his parents and oldest siblings already sitting, enjoying cups of tea, and chatting about this morning’s newspaper.

“Good morning, mother and father, brothers. I hope you have all rested well.” Castiel greeted, taking his seat next to Michael, who was sitting to the right of their mother. They all greeted him back and settled into casual conversation, his younger sister following him very shortly after and taking a seat next to him.

“How are you feeling today, my dearest Anna?” King Charles, their father, asked his youngest. Affection and love practically rolled off his father’s scent at the moment, looking at Anna with an expression to match his scent.

“Quite well, father. I have managed a good amount of sleep and the hot bath this morning has eased any aches. I’m elated to have woken up with an appetite, too!” Anna replied enthusiastically. Castiel had to agree that she appeared in much better spirits today than she had this past week. There was a speckle of blush in her cheeks that had, unfortunately, been absent for a while. It was a shame, really. Anna had been born with a poor constitution, their parents having had problems conceiving after bringing Castiel into the world. It had taken them many losses and 8 years before their family had been blessed with Anna. It was a relief when she hadn’t presented by 15 and the royal physician declared her a beta, rather than an omega or alpha. It meant there weren’t going to be any more health complications that would come with imminent ruts or heats.

“That’s wonderful, darling. We are ever so happy. Maybe your brother, Gabriel, will be happy to accompany you to the grounds today and you can enjoy riding your mare for a while.” Queen Naomi, their mother, chipped in, sounding genuinely delighted. “If his servants will ever find that troublesome boy.” she added, shaking her head wistfully.

“That is if he ever decides to stop his shameful antics and behave like a respectful member of this family.” his older brother, Lucius, scowled from across the table, seated at their father's left. “You have given him too much freedom, mother. At this rate, we will end up with a feral beta on our hands.”

“Have faith, Lucius. I am certain Gabriel will settle down as soon as he mates and marries.” Michael added.

The conversation halted when the kitchen maids started coming through with their breakfast, placing an impressive spread of sausages, eggs, vegetables, bacon, and pastries on the table, along with a few pots of tea. 

“How are the preparations for your departure to Paris going, Castiel? Is everything in place?” Michael asked him, cutting into a sausage but not looking at him.

“Yes, I am almost done. If I do not meet any delays in my meetings today I will be able to return home and finish drafting the necessary documents tonight and send them for review to our financial staff and the Prime Minister’s secretary. I expect they shall be reviewed within the next three months so there will be plenty of time for me to return home without stress befalling you.”

“As expected of our little brother, Michael! Are you sure you sleep enough at night? Sometimes I worry you’ve become one of those machines I’ve seen in some of the new factories.” Lucius laughs but nobody joins.

“Lucius, please do not tantalize your brother. He works very hard for you to inherit a great kingdom.” Their mother berated, throwing a stern glance at her son, annoyance slipping in her scent.

“Banter is healthy between siblings, my love. Do not berate Lucius so harshly for a simple quip.” King Charles quickly tried to placate their queen.

Castiel grabbed another egg for himself, not waiting for one of the maids to serve him, which earned him a glare from his mother in turn. “I will have to join you on one of the factory tours for me to be able to make a correct comparison between the machines and myself. I might find myself a new friend.” he tries to make light of the conversation, knowing their mother, as loving as she may sometimes be, her temper is also just as quick to show.

To his surprise, everyone managed a chuckle at his expense, and breakfast continues without further heaviness. Gabriel never does show his face and Castiel wonders if he ate with the stable boys.

“Your Highness, Prince Castiel, Lord Balthazar has arrived,” their butler announced as he was finishing his tea.

“Wonderful. Let him know I will be not a minute,” he instructed the butler before turning back to his family. “I shall take my leave. I bid you all a good day,” Castiel says whilst getting up and pressing a chaste kiss to his sister’s cheek before heading out, grabbing his coat from Alfie.

He finds Balthazar in the parlor, hands in pockets, and top hat pristinely on his head. He turns his head when he hears Castiel come in and starts making his way towards him. Balt’s familiar smell started to fill the close space between them and Castiel allowed it to relax him. 

“Cassie! Good morning. Why, don’t you look dashing?” Balthazar smiles widely.

“I would not know. You are aware my fashion sense is as good as a pup’s.” Castiel replies, quite seriously but with an affectionate undertone. 

“Ah, yes. I shall thank Alfie when we return for making sure my childhood friend does not bring shame upon himself and the Royal Family.” Balthazar said and gave the air a small sniff. “I see we’re not masking our scent today. Good.”

“I’m sure he will appreciate hearing that. I feel like he’s not happy with my independence when it comes to dressing.” Castiel sighs, genuinely affected. “Since when did you care about propriety and palace rules?”

“Ah, nonsense, my dear friend. Alfie knows you, as do I. Come, let us depart and we can continue this conversation in the carriage.”

The carriage was already waiting for them at the entrance, imposing, opulent, and needlessly so. The Royal Family crest sat heavily on every side of the carriage. Castiel vehemently wished he could leave the palace without such a bother. There were guards on horses following them behind and on the sides. It was so easy for him to feel alienated from his own family and heritage, which in turn made Castiel wince with guilt at his treacherous thoughts. He loved his family and his country, he only wished his personality was better suited to show it. 

"So, are we ready for our upcoming journey to one of my home countries?" Balthazar said, waking Castiel out of his reverie. 

"Quite. I am looking forward to seeing France with my own two eyes. You have done a good job of raising expectations. I do hope you're ready to face them, now." Castiel teased. 

His friend scoffed and gave him a rueful smile "Have you known me for a naysayer? If I have promised the moon, I shall pluck it with my own two hands and nothing else." 

"If the French detained the moon, I am quite certain we would know," Castiel answered flatly. 

"Dear me, Cassie. We need to work on your _littéral_ way of understanding conversation." Balthazar chuckled, his French accent overriding his English one. "We shall attend to all the important affairs as official Foreign Representatives, force our best British smiles and incessantly ask them for cups of tea. And then I vow to _sortez ce bâton de votre cul._ " he finished, winking at Castiel. 

In the confines of the carriage, Castiel allowed himself to roll his eyes at his friend. All in good nature, of course. He appreciated Balt's easy way of conversation, and the charm he exuded along with his clean Alpha scent provided the companionable effect Castiel needed to feel at ease. "You have always been so outspoken. Let us not allow anyone to overhear your talk of sticks and posteriors in my presence. Lest you'd love a good whip?" Castiel grinned at his friend, resting his head on top of his hand. 

"Ah, yes. You know just what to say to get me going, dearest." Balthazar laughed, throwing his head back. "I might have to abandon you once in a while whilst I… Ah, _deal with gentlemanly matters_." 

Castiel titled his head to the side and hummed his response "I would expect nothing less from the noble who is rumoured to have swept half the Royal Court of their feet. I shall find myself entertainment. I hear the Louvre is quite the sight." Castiel looked out the window, already getting excited at the prospect of being in a place that will allow a better sense of autonomy than his home. He has been making plans of visiting galleries and theaters by himself, maybe even dine at a local coffeehouse if he was careful and clever enough. 

"Will your rut be happening during our stay, Castiel? We need to plan accordingly and if you're amenable, I would like to -" Balthazar started but stopped when Castiel put his hand up to silence his friend. 

" _Please_ , Balt. You are conscious of my disposition. To answer your question, yes, my mating cycle is due to start during our stay. However, as you are already in the know," he peered at his friend without turning his head, an expression on his face that pleaded the conversation be dropped, "I have my own preference of treatment." 

Balthazar did not grace him with a reply for a short while. He hoped that meant he understood to drop this cumbersome topic. His mating cycle was a sore spot for the young Prince. His primary gender was a thing of great celebration when he had presented at the green age of twelve. The whole Royal Court had sung his praises, that such an early presentation was a sign of healthy Alpha blood running through his veins, a promise of great strength, intelligence and fertility. It didn't take long for everyone to realise that it may not be the case. That was only the start in a long succession of disappointments he was to bring his beloved family, and it still stung a great deal to think about. 

"Very well, Cassie." he heard Balth give a small, resigned sigh. "Just… Please do not shut me out. You know you will always have little old me if you need."

Castiel turned towards his friend with his whole body and leaned in, patting his friend's knee fondly. "Thank you. I know. You must know there is no one I hold in higher regard than you, except for my blood family. I vow you, I shall try my best to be a most congenial companion." 

Balthazar rose from his seat across Castiel abruptly and sat back down next to him, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "We will savour our time apart from this damp mistress we call home, and we shall come back more jovial and cheeks rounder from an abundance of French cuisine, yes?" 

Castiel took an amused look at his friend's face and gave him a small, encouraging smile. Yes, if he would have his way, that was how he intended to come back. Lighter in soul and soft-footed, ready to tackle responsibilities that came with being Third Alpha Price of England.

Castiel knows the real reason he was sent on this voyage that was due to last from the first signs of winter until the very beginning of spring. Of course, being part of the diplomatic representatives sent as a sign of continued peace and goodwill between the countries of The Great Powers was a grand honour. Castiel, however, knew it could've been very well done by Balthazar on his own since in the eyes of the world, he was a close protégé of the Royals, highly valued in court and personal affinities. It had been his father's idea for Castiel to accompany him, and no matter that he had never voiced concerns in regards to his son's shortcomings, Castiel knew it was an attempt to fix a problem in a new way. Castiel just wasn't sure in what way, exactly. Regardless, he was elated to be included, his heart leaping at the opportunities for cultural assimilation. He might be a good little soldier for his family in a way, but he held art, religion, and many other subdued interests dear to his heart. Hobbies and interests that he had not been able to nurture to the extent of his wishes.

Yes. He will certainly try his best to make the most out of this blessing. 

×××

He could see the shore now. Twinkling lights in the distance, but not quite near enough to hear the bustle that goes along with a busy port. Castiel grabbed onto the rails of the ship with both hands and inhaled the air deeply. The soft breeze brought forth whiffs of fish, sweat, ale, and coal amongst other things. It smelled like _relief_ to Castiel. 

The week before their departure was a flurry of preparations, even after he submitted all the necessary projects. Most of his and Balthazar’s luggage had been sent ahead as per his request in order to avoid bringing in any servants, much to his Queen’s dismay. By the time the day of departure came around, it was just him, his friend, and a couple of trunks between them that they had no problems looking after themselves. A small victory, perhaps, but one nonetheless. 

And so, with the weather on their side, the ship departed from Dover and started its way to Calais. It was marvellous to see what a difference a few hours and a small body of water could make. Castiel already felt at ease and it had only been a few hours.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? Wait until we arrive, the stench won’t be quite as pleasant.” Balthazar said, joining him on the deck. 

Castiel had to give a chuckle. “I imagine it will be at least as bad as Dover was. I can already smell the fish.”

“Fish, amongst other things,” Balthazar replied. “You know what else I can smell? No responsibilities - and it smells _divine_.”

“I can assure you we will have plenty of those. Just not with the whole British court on our back.” Castiel quipped, giving his friend a small smirk.

Balthazar gave a small sigh in return. “Always ready to douse my pants in cold water, Your Highness. I was hoping to ignore that detail.”

Castiel didn’t reply, just patted Balt’s shoulder in a friendly gesture. They were getting closer now. He could finally distinguish buildings and other ships in the low lighting and it’d be a lie to say his heart did not start to tremble in anticipation. 

They arrived at the port shortly after. They were the first to disembark, their luggage already being put in a carriage by a servant sent to assist them. Before following Balthazar inside, Castiel allowed himself to look at his surroundings for a minute. His friend was right, the smell was most definitely just as bad as Dover, but he found he did not mind it at all. The bustle was uninterrupted by their arrival, which was a relief. Their arrival had not been announced in the papers to the country, something he had arranged himself. And so they boarded the carriage with no interference and were on their way to Versailles.  
  


### Paris, early December 1869

The suffocating smells of Alphas inundated Dior’s nose. When he first started doing this, he had a hard time controlling his expressions whenever he was overwhelmed with the stink of his clients. Now, a few years down the line, he has become a lot better at controlling his expressions, the perfect image of professionalism. Well, not _too_ professional. Nobody likes an expressionless omega prostitute. He always made sure to be just the right amount of sheepish, seductive but still assertive when needed. He prided himself in being bought for other uses except being a hole to fuck. 

“Are we ready, gentlemen?” He asked around the table, looking at each of the players, locking eyes for no more than a second, giving them a playful smile.

“You heard the boy, Uriel. Are you planning on keeping us here all night?” One of the alphas snapped at a greying and balding man on Dior’s left.

“You’d think you all were the impatient omegas here, not the whore, Alastair!” Uriel snapped back to the man across from him. “I’ll fold.”

Dior wanted to growl at the derogatory term used but he knew better than to be so stupid. The last time he’d dared correct one of them he’d ended up with bleeding ass cheeks. Instead, he kept his playful smile. “Now, now. No need to get heated. Keep that for the bedroom gentlemen.” he teased, receiving some darkening looks in response. “ _Monsieur_ Uriel is folding. What about the rest?”

Everyone else decided to place down their cards, nobody going all in. Dior looked at the presenting hands and excitedly announced the winner of this round, “Ah. It appears the winner is, once again, _monsieur_ Alastair! Congratulations, _mon cher_ alpha.” 

Dior collected all of the money and jewelry pooled in the middle of the poker table and deposited them in front of Alastair, before dropping himself slowly in his lap, snaking one hand around his shoulder and stroking his jaw whilst looking at the rest of the table. “What do we all say, _monsieurs_? Shall we stop the game for now and return to the main room? A group of such esteemed and handsome Alphas should not be hidden away from the main activities.” He purred, shivering inwardly. God, he hated all of them so much and wanted to gag at the scent of arousal coming from Alastair. He could feel his hand snaking up his arse, groping him.

“It seems your prostitute knows quality when he sees it. I thought for a second he was blind to have not thrown up on your shoes the moment your grotesque visage appeared.” One of the other men - a short and stocky alpha - at the table said, getting up.

“Have you not looked in the mirror this morning, Marvin? I dare say the reason we haven’t heard wildlife tonight is that you’ve scared them off.” Alastair replied, getting up as well, taking Dior with him and slapping his rear. “Omega, I will go and associate myself for another half an hour. Get yourself ready to leave before then, we’ll be returning to your _maison_ afterward.” Alastair whispered, giving Dior’s tightly clad rear another slap.

Dior clenched his teeth and stroked his client’s jaw again, making sure to stare at his lips an obscene amount of time. “As you wish, _mon cher_ alpha.” 

With that, the group left the parlour that was designated for poker and pool and headed back into the main ballroom. Dior headed to the cloak room and waited for the servant to bring back his outerwear. He couldn’t smell anything on the teenager, which indicated he was a Beta. And yet, Dior could see his cheeks reddening at the sight of him, quickly scurrying to the closet. If even a beta’s very limiting scenting abilities were able to start such a reaction, Dior suspected the new enhancing bath salts Crowley purchased were doing their job. Jesus, he could even smell himself which never happened outside of his heats and he was most definitely not due for another month or so. 

As he made his way to the main entrance to wait for Alastair, he was aware of all the hungry stares the alphas in the room were giving him. Even knowing they wouldn’t risk their reputations by attacking a prostitute in a moment of ‘passion’, Dior could still feel a trickle of cold sweat running down his neck and back. Frustrated at his anatomy for being intimidated even though it wasn’t rational whatsoever, he stomped outside and took the deepest breaths in. December had just started but he could already smell the clean aroma of winter and snow. It soothed his nerves. 

A body moved into his peripheral vision, a familiar smell of mated alpha wafting in his direction. He turned towards this new person and gave a small acknowledging nod.

“Good evening, _Monsieur_ Cain. I hope you’re well?” Dior asks the tall man.

“Good evening, Dior. I will be better once my carriage arrives and I will be on my way home.” Cain answered, shaking his head at nothing in particular. “I would ask about yours but I’ve noticed you’re spoken for by Alastair tonight.” This time he did turn towards Dior, a questioning - but not unkind - look in his eyes.

“Indeed.” he replied. Dior liked _Monsieur_ Cain. He was one of his regulars at the _maison_ , but has only ever bought him for his time and not his body. The first few times it happened, he had been apprehensive because - not to blow his own horn - he was not a cheap prostitute, being the most sought after omega at his establishment, and nobody spends that amount of money to just _talk_ . And yet...Cain did. It took a while, but after the fifth meeting, Dior realised he was a lonely man who needed some sort of companionship that was not driven by anything else except a simple transaction. He’d learned a lot in the time he’d met up with Cain. The man enjoyed talking about his hobbies and was excited to teach Dior how to properly defend himself with a small knife. 

_‘You know as well as I do that most of the_ Brigade des mœurs _are imbeciles who only care about lining their own pockets. You need to know how to strike when in an unsavoury situation.’_ he had told him and Dior had to agree. He had always had the advantage of being better built than most omegas. At 183 centimeters he was exceedingly tall for one, along with a lean but athletic build, rather than the wispiness associated with his primary gender. 

“Will you be visiting me soon? I have missed our chess matches. Nobody is willing to learn back at the _maison_.” Dior asked the alpha.

“Yes. I will send Crowley a note requesting your presence at my residence in about a week.” Cain replied, turning back towards the stairs of the mansion, catching sight of his carriage. “I will be leaving you now, Dior. Good luck.” he greeted, giving a low bow and tipping his tophat towards Dior.

He gave the alpha a small bow in response and watched him disappear from his sight. The quiet that followed his departure didn’t last long before he heard Alastair’s abhorrent voice calling out for him to come over, like some sort of damn house dog. Alastair roughly grabbed his shoulder and led him down to the carriage, not wasting a single moment after the door closed and pounced on the omega. 

It’s been a long time since Dior has felt any shame towards sexual encounters in moving carriages. He was used to alphas being unable to control their urges, like some sort of animals, as if they weren’t a fucking civilised nation, but a bunch of barbarians in monkey suits. And they called _him_ the stupid whore. 

But he had a job to do. So when Alastair commanded he get on his knees and suck his cock, he did. When he was roughly thrown in his bed back at the _maison_ , and had his hands tied behind his back whilst presenting, he let it happen. He also made damn sure to convince the client there was nothing else he’d rather do than take his lacking knot and that he was the next best thing since the invention of the coffee pot.

After Alastair took his ugly ass out of his room, Dior didn’t waste any time in getting himself clean. They weren’t lucky enough to have running hot water like other establishments but Crowley promised that business was good and another year of good revenue would enable him to do the necessary renovations. Dior counted the days on his fingers until then. 

He cleaned the immediate mess with a damp towel, wrapped himself in a robe, and descended the three flights of stairs to the boiler room. It was after midnight so clients were no longer allowed on the premises, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a constant bustle of voices and scents of arousal, alpha, omega, slick, and cum engulfing the building. Each flight of stairs he descended, the decor got worse and the structure appeared a lot rougher than on the last floor. It was the way Crowley ran his house. The more money you brought in, the more privileges you had.

Dior was the best earning prostitute so he was given a modest but well furnished studio on the last floor with his own personal water closet and tub. No running bath water, but at least they had working plumbing for the toilets and did not have to resort to chamber pots like half of France. His room had a comfortable four-poster double bed, a good sized sofa and coffee table in front of a rather large, round window overviewing the busy streets. He had a desk, a fireplace, good rugs that didn’t feel scratchy on his knees whenever his clients were feeling particularly feral. On his floor it was just him and Ruby, the second highest earning of the omegas. 

The second floor consisted of 4 double rooms that didn’t have a sitting room like his did, but had a small water closet. The first floor had 6 single rooms without an en-suite. The comfort of the decor and the furniture was also degrading in quality as you descended, the paint peeling here and there, beds creaking, floors scratched. The ground floor was lavish as you entered, gleaming white and gold with polished floors and a huge, dark cherry hardwood desk at the front where Crowley directed all of the clients to the desired room or into the waiting area if they were after a prostitute that was otherwise currently occupied. Crowley prided himself in the fact that his establishment was very quickly becoming amongst the top _maisons_ of Paris. Dior wanted to scoff when he had heard him say that the first time. As far as he was aware, _La Chambre des Anges_ allowed all of _their_ prostitutes working plumbing. Something he’d told Crowley as well, which had earned him a stern scolding and his client choosing privileges revoked for a week, so whoever came in and requested him would be sent upstairs whether he liked it or not. That was one thing Dior wasn’t ready to give up anymore: his ability to choose who fucked him or not. It was a privilege only he and Ruby were allowed and it had saved him a lot of pain over the last year since he’d been upped to the last floor. 

When he got to the boiler room, many of the girls and boys on the first floor were sharing the big bathing tub in the middle of the room, steam and soap getting rid of the scents they have accumulated over the day. They were all relatively young, around the same age he was when he’d first come in with Crowley. They were giggling and gossiping with each other. He smiled to himself and made his way over, leaning over the wooden edge of the tub.

“What are _mes petits_ giggling about to such a degree?” he asked and all of them turned towards him excitedly.

“Oh, Dior! _Tu ne le croiras pas_!” one of the girls chipped in, coming quickly to rest her elbows on the edge next to him. She was a wispy thing with a mop of brown hair. “Adrien had a client today that -” before she could finish the sentence the rest of them erupted in giggles again and one of the boys submerged himself completely under the water, groaning.

“That didn’t even put it in! He just wanted to lick his _trou_!” She continued, starting to look a little wistful. “I wish any of my clients paid me to do that.” There was a collective agreement and Adrien finally came back up from under the water.

Dior laughed. “You guys will find that people have all sorts of fetishes. They might even ask you to let them lick your _feet_.” 

They all said ‘ewww’ in unison and had all degrees of disgust on their faces. He cared a great deal about these kids. He knew what it was like to be discarded by society and be regarded as useless. Having a roof over their heads, even if they were giving something so precious in return, was a blessing. At least they were all registered with the government, which meant they were protected against being arrested or in danger of being raped whilst trying to survive on the streets. He gave Lorette, the brown-haired girl, a kiss on the forehead and told them to quit the gossip and finish washing. Dior then took care of his own bath, filling a pail with water and sending it up using the dumbwaiter.

He made his way back up, spread lavender bath salts at the bottom of his tub and filled it with the hot water. He set his shampoo, conditioner, and scent neutralizing soap on the floor before sinking into the water, giving a contented sigh. This was the best part of his day. Dior leaned his head back and put his arms along the edge of the tub, staring at the ceiling.

This isn’t what he wanted to do for the rest of his life. But he didn’t know anyone who had tried leaving it and had neither ended back in or dead somewhere on the streets. There was also no way of him saving up any money. Seventy percent of his earnings went to taxes for being registered and the rest went to Crowley for his food and shelter. He didn’t even buy his own clothes. That, again, was done by Crowley and his secretary. There wasn’t anything he owned in this world. Not his furniture, not the clothes on his back, not even his own damn name. How fucking depressing was that?

He turned his head towards his window and watched the night sky with its twinkling stars. It was beautiful, he had to admit, even if there was smoke coming out from most of the chimneys in the area. Beautiful nights like this made him feel inappropriate, filthy. He started scrubbing his skin, an avid need to rip it off creeping up his spine.

No, he didn’t own a damn, single, fucking thing. And it made him so mad. He was livid. Who was he? How did he end up here? Why was this his life? He just wanted answers, damn it all! 

“Fuck!” he yelled frustrated, throwing his soap on the other side of his room. He sank his head in his hands. “Fuck!” he repeated, the pit in his stomach deepening and the ache in his heart burning him alive.

  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Close, Yet Far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Concubine - a person who cohabits with another person to whom they are not legally married/mated, especially one regarded as socially or sexually subservient; mistress, a secondary spouse, usually of inferior rank.
> 
> Courtesan - a prostitute with a courtly, wealthy, or upper-class clientele. Could also be 'kept women/men' away from the main household
> 
> _________
> 
> Yay, second chapter!!!   
> I've joined two different SPN Bangs for three different writers so I'm going to be swamped this coming month. No time for my own art so I apologise for the lack of in this chapter and next >.<
> 
> Enjoy and remember: kudos and comments warm the soul! lol <3

###  **Castiel's POV**

The journey from Calais to the Palace of Versaille took the best of five days. They couldn’t travel after dark, so their journeying hours had to start late in the morning and finish early in the afternoon at this time of the year. Castiel did not mind whatsoever. It gave him many opportunities to enjoy the French countryside and to try and commit to memory as many details as he could.

He took in the way glistening frost took over the grass in the mornings when they departed, the way people seemed to greet each other left and right, something that would’ve been abhorrent back at home. He smiled at the easy affection parents seemed to shower their children with and thought of his father in passing, and how he'd like it here. He loved the way the language rolled off with ease off the locals’ tongues, nothing like the blocky pronunciation he heard from his peers back in England. It felt natural, languid and so impossibly _graceful_. Castiel fiercely wished that his French would sound exactly like that by the time they had to go home.

And, _oh_ , how very painful that thought was already. He’d been on this side of the channel for barely a week, and he was already dreading his departure. Had he always been so impressionable, or had his romantic tendencies finally taken over his critical mind? Castiel realised that leaving will quite possibly be one of the hardest things he will have ever done by that point. He was ready to fall in love with this country, and Balthazar had only laughed and said _‘I told you so.’_

They arrived at the palace shortly after midday struck. This time, there was a grand reception, many people gathering before the gates, colourful paper confetti thrown around, cheers being heard from every angle, French royal guards riding in a march in front and behind their carriage (an ostentatious thing that bore his family’s insignia but so very French in its design). He and Balthazar waved to the masses, making sure they didn't lean out the windows too much. Castiel might have been able to prevent a commotion with their arrival at the port, but he knew this display was necessary for their arrival at the capital. It was there for the people’s benefit. They needed to see, to have visual evidence, that the relationship between their countries is good, solid, _safe_. That thought alone made it worth it for Castiel. He wanted the people to feel protected and secure in their peace. It had been a long time coming and they all deserved this. 

The carriage pulled up in front of the palace’s entrance but neither he nor Balt got out yet. They first needed to be announced, which happened very shortly after.

“France and its Royal Family are honoured to welcome Castiel James the First, third Prince of England and His Grace Balthazar Sebastian of the Roché Duchy, arriving as foreign dignitaries, a sign of goodwill between two great Kingdoms.” they heard a servant announce, moments before their door was opened.

Castiel was the first to get out, followed immediately by Balthazar. They made their way to the imposing arch in front of them, side by side. Four main figures could be spotted amongst what could’ve easily been a small army of knights, maids and butlers. King Azazel of France stood with a straight back, tall, imposing and radiating Alpha pheromones. His crown was gleaming in the winter sun, gems of all colours sparkled genuinely, even with no movement, atop intricate gold designs. Next to him were three slender figures of differing heights who could be no one else but his three daughters and only children. Castiel had received portraits of the whole French Royal family so it would be impossible to mistake them for anyone else. Nobody, not even Britain, could live with the embarrassment of their Prince being unable to recognise the leaders of one of their allies.

They stopped in front of the French royals and kneeled in perfect sync.

“Your Majesty, King Azazel of France and your Highnesses, Crown Princess Abbadon, Princess Lilith and Princess Margot. Prince Castiel James the First and His Grace Lord Balthazar of the Roché Duchy greet you. We thank you for your benevolent welcome to your country and home. God bless the Royal Family.” Castiel greeted, his head bowed low, one hand gently touching the floor, one touching his chest. Formal greetings to the Royals in their own countries were always complicated and had to be tip-toed around. A small price to pay for peace, really.

“My family, country and I welcome you. You can raise yourselves.” and so Castiel and Balt did, meeting the King’s eyes. “And thank you. For being here and solidifying our budding friendship. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

“You must be famished. The journey from Calais to Versailles isn’t an agreeable one at this time of the year. We have prepared for lunch. Please allow us the honour and dine with us.” one of the princesses said. It was the first-born, Crown Princess Abbadon. Her portrait did not do her justice. Her long, bright red tresses were cascading down to the small of her back in soft curls, very much against what he knew to be in trend amongst French nobility. Her face, although exquisite with sharp features, was cold and calculating. If Castiel had not been used to such frosty looks from the British court, he might have physically shivered. 

“The honour would be ours, Your Highness, the Crown Princess.” Balthazar replied, giving her what Castiel would class as his ‘killer smile’. It seemed to work as the Princess gave him a small smirk.

“Please, do follow us Your Highness, Your Grace.” the youngest princess, Margot, said. She was the petite one amongst the sisters, her face the homeliest of the three. She had chocolate brown hair that was fashionably up in tight curls around the base of her neck, framing her features in such a way that she appeared the perfect image of the cherub angel French artists seemed so fond of.

She caught Castiel’s eye with a playful glint in her own, mouth quirked in a mischievous smile. He suddenly felt his shirt a lot tighter around his neck. He reckoned those two sisters would be giving him a lot of trouble during their stay. Princess Lilith on the other hand, seemed to want to be anywhere but here. Not necessarily displeased, just… bored.

They all made their way inside the palace, Castiel and Balthazar walking shoulder to shoulder at a very formal and appropriate distance behind the Royal Family. He marveled at the French architecture, the intricate designs, and statues that were peppered liberally in the impressive front gardens of the palace. Even with the onset of winter, everything still appeared lush green as if the time here stopped mid-spring. Countless breeds of flowers, bushes and trees were planted in sophisticated patterns, very much the model of the romantic trend France was the pioneer of. So strong were the aromas around him that it took him by surprise when he could not smell anything except for the surrounding greenery. No alpha, beta or omega scents. No bodily functions, no fumes or smoke or even _himself_. He relished that feeling. It all just smelled purely of flora.

“If I did not know any better, I would have claimed we have stepped inside the Garden of Eden, Balthazar. These gardens are astonishing,” Castiel whispered to his friend, awe slipping between his words. “I can’t smell anything except God’s perfect creations. It’s brilliant.”

“I find myself forced to agree with you, Cassie. England has its own charm, but the French just have a way with artistry.” his friend hummed in reply, apparently pleased with Castiel’s approval.

Lunch passes without any problems. Conversation between the people present goes exactly as Castiel expects: mostly political; how both the countries have been faring in joining The Great Powers, plans of factory implementation and the technological advances. He was pleasantly surprised to see that Princess Margot was well-versed in many aspects to do with the betterment of France and genuinely interested in holding a conversation. She joked that she and her sisters were as different as oil and water and they all agreed. That steered the conversation into the direction of their family.

Castiel was stunned to see how easily they talked about the King’s late wives, three of them in total. They had each borne him a daughter only to either die in childbirth or from complications. The King itself had joked about _‘collecting all of the presentations’_ seeing as each of his daughters had a different primary gender. Abbadon was an alpha, Lilith a beta and Margot an omega. Castiel knew that just like England, the only people allowed to inherit the throne were alphas. So, Abbadon was the only Crown Princess. For now. 

King Azazel talked of his many concubines and of his dreams of having as many alpha children as possible, to assure that his bloodline remained on the throne. He did not wish to take another wife. Castiel kept quiet through most of that topic as he was not knowledgeable about how legitimacy worked in France. By God’s grace, Balthazar was well-informed where he wasn’t, not allowing a stall in conversation or silence to permeate the room.

At the end, as they all exchanged goodbyes, Castiel noticed Princess Margot’s gaze lingered on him longer than necessary, a smile permanently on her lips. He wished they hadn’t worn so many perfumes. Being unable to scent the mood in the room was majorly inconveniencing. 

After both he and Balthazar had been shown to their rooms - in the same wing, thankfully - and the servants left him, Castiel laid on the bed’s edge, gently at first, then threw himself on his back, arms above his hand. He took off his scarf and vest, and unlaced his top at the neck in order to get more comfortable. 

It was very unbecoming, he knew, but he felt the need to feel the stretch of his limbs in a way that wasn’t straight and stiff. 

This was real. He’d crossed the channel, he’d crossed half of France, he’d arrived at Versailles, greeted and dined with the Royal family and now was completely alone for the next hour until the maids would come in and prepare him a bath. 

He closed his eyes and listened to the soft wind pushing against the glass of the windows, the crackling of flames in the fireplace across from his bed, and how his breathing seemed to echo in his muscles on every exhale. He will have to attend as many social functions and balls as possible, now. He was expected to form business relationships, build lasting friendships, praise his Kingdom and not be a disappointment, of course. Nevertheless, between them, there would be plenty of time for him to explore Paris - and maybe even neighboring cities - with Balthazar or just on his own. 

That thought prompted him to get up from the bed. At the same time, his doors swung open with force, startling him. It was no one but his annoyingly charming best friend. He had the most obnoxious grin on his face.

“Goodness me, Your Highness! I came as soon as the servants left me. I was worried about your virtue!” he exclaimed.

Castiel almost sputtered. “I beg your pardon? You were worried about my _what_?”

“Your purity! Your integrity. Your innocence. Your virginity. Whatever you would like to name it, _mon cher_.” Balthazar ranted, closing in on Castiel’s bed, throwing his whole body on it and rolling onto his side, head rested on a hand. “It was quite indisputable to me that the youngest princess was making such eyes at you, she was most definitely disrobing you in her mind’s eye,” he winked.

“Balthazar! Goodness, reign in your cheekiness, please,” Castiel groaned, heading to sit in one of the armchairs near the fireplace. “You cannot speak such thoughts out loud. What if anybody hears you?”

“Now, I know you are not blind. A bit naive, yes. But most definitely not blind. If they hadn’t been wearing so much perfume, I’m pretty sure we could’ve smelled slick, my friend.” 

“I did not come here for a spouse or to fornicate, Balt! Whether the Princess finds me attractive or not, it does not change anything. It is not in my interest or hers. Besides, you know I don’t…” Castiel rubbed at his temples tiredly but did not finish his sentence. It appears he did not have the patience for his friend’s antics today.

Castiel looked up at Balthazar and locked eyes for a while. He hoped his eyes could tell his friend what his mouth wouldn’t. As always, Balt did not disappoint. “My apologies, Castiel. I do hope you know I only have your best interest at heart. I was not insinuating anything more except that a perfectly lovely person finds you comely and it may not be such a bad thing to have a bit of fun.” 

"Yes, I know. Forgive me, Balt. I did not mean to raise my voice. I know you mean only good and I should not lose my temper for that," Castiel said, feeling dreadfully guilty for treating his friend like anything less than the wonderful person he was. "Besides, you _are_ right. We also came here to enjoy ourselves."

Balthazar got up and sat at the edge of the bed, cross legged. "No harm done, _chérie_. I'm afraid I'm still very much a bull in a China shop with you sometimes," he laughed, obviously not at all deterred from being jolly. Castiel thanked the heavens for his friend's unending understanding. "We rest today and party like the French tomorrow!" 

They spent the rest of the hour chatting about the welcome ball held tomorrow for all the foreigners and other miniscule topics. After Balthazar left and the servants arrived, he allowed them to bathe and clothe him in nightwear whilst his mind wandered over as many possible outcomes for the ball. He needed to be as perfect as possible, even if it meant he had to abandon some of his personality back in his room.

xxx

_I’m here to have fun. We are here to be jovial. I. Am. Here. To. Enjoy. Myself._ Castiel kept chanting to himself whilst holding a conversation with other foreign dignitaries. Right now, he found himself alone in a group consisting of the Russian and Prussian representatives, Balthazar having disappeared a while ago. 

It was hard to enjoy one’s self when the company was nothing short of mortifying. Their speech was polite and formal, and yet their ideals and opinions were nothing if not ancient and repulsive. He had been under the impression the Great Powers had been united in a joint effort to evolve into more progressive societies, try to be more understanding towards the less fortunate and anything in between that was supposed to be _good_.

Right now he had to grit his teeth quietly whilst listening to the alphas excitedly talk about their hopes and dreams that now - with the added security that came from such an impressive treaty - they could go back to _the good all days_ when there had been close to no rights for anyone that wasn’t an alpha. Castiel had tried to steer the conversation towards a less destructive topic, to no avail. They hadn’t outright disrespected his opinions - which would not have gone well for someone of his status - but neither have they acknowledged his undeniably perfect replies and facts.

He was close to letting his temper slip through his cracks - which might be close to the only thing he inherited from his mother’s personality - when someone blessedly interrupted them. Castiel turned toward this new participant and was surprised to see the Crown Princess approach them.

“Monsieurs,” she stated simply, posture perfect, hands firmly placed in front of her waist.

They all bowed deeply and greeted her accordingly. “Your Highness, Crown Princess Abbadon, you shine brighter than the brightest diamond,” the German representative flattered her and Castiel wanted to roll his eyes at the gaudy line.

Princess Abbadon did not deign him with a reply, just a nod of acknowledgment. Instead, she turned her head towards Castiel and addressed him directly, “Prince Castiel, would you give me a minute of your time?”

“Of course, Your Highness. Please, show the way,” Castiel bowed again and then offered his elbow to her, giving the other people a short nod of his own.

Princess Abbadon took his arm gracefully and she led him slowly through the ballroom to one of the doors. She started speaking as soon as she was out of earshot of his previous group, “My sisters and I have been looking for you and Monsieur Balthazar. We were hoping you would join us in my private parlour for some more exciting entertainment,” she told him, still looking ahead.

It didn’t take long for him to realise that this was not an invitation he could refuse. Being invited to a private gathering during a ball of such grandeur, away from prying ears, meant that he was being shown favoritism by the Royal Family. Whether that was a positive or negative development, he would have to see.

“You honour me, Your Highness. It would do me great pleasure to join you,” Castiel replied, giving her his most charming smile. Or at least, he thought it was. 

“ _Merveilleuse_!” was all she said before taking a sharp turn around a corner. It was not long before they came to a heavy and intricately decorated, wooden door. It was already open so they walked straight in, Balthazar come over immediately.

“Princess Abbadon, I see you have found my wayward prince. I am deeply indebted to you,” Balt bowed low and kissed one of the princess’ hands. “I will take this troublemaker off your hands so you can return to the table. Your sisters have been anxiously awaiting your return.”

The princess gave a small laugh “ _Merci, Monsieur Balthazar_. Please do join us before long.”

Castiel and his friend watched the princess make her way to a table where both her siblings and a few other people were playing a card game. Castiel took a quick look around the room, taking note of everything that was happening. 

There were a couple of lords and ladies that were smoking on the adjacent balcony, a few people were hovering around the pool table, holding glasses that appeared to contain hard spirits, and others were playing darts. Something - or rather someones - that stood out to him, were a very handsome pair of omegas dressed in matching, stark white and feathered outfits moving amongst the patrons fluidly. Amongst the black and dark coloured outfits, Castiel dared to say they were quite blinding. His gaze followed them moving around the room, inhaling a sharp breath when the woman leaned on one of the sitting patron’s back, her deeply exposed bosom evidently pushing against the man’s neck and shoulder. He realised he must have been staring for far longer than he thought since he felt Balthazar’s hand clasp on one of his shoulders.

“They’re courtesans,” Balt explained matter-of-factly. 

“Oh. I see,” was all Castiel could add to that. He knew prostitutes existed, of course. However, back home they were seen as less than people, worse than sub-class citizens. There had been many discussions about the moral implications of such occupations, and how to end as much of it as possible. The meetings were never compassionate to these people. It was always about how to subjugate, threaten and intimidate them in stopping. Castiel had always felt horrid for sitting in on those meetings and being unable to make a difference - any difference. Most of these changes were based upon vote, so it was always him against everyone else. 

He took a look at the omega man. He was massaging - in what looked like a quite professional manner - Princess Abbadon’s shoulders and neck, slowly lowering his lips right next to her ear and whispering something that made her smirk. She turned her head and placed a chaste kiss on the man’s cheek, right by his lips, not unlike a promise to act upon later. 

Castiel knew his eyes must be bulging out of his sockets. Back home, such a display of affection was not commonly used even between married or mated partners in a public setting. And yet, here he was, bearing witness to France’s Crown Princess placing an almost animal-like claim on a paid escort. 

“I-I did not realise the French were so open about…” Castiel tried talking again but found he could not finish his sentence.

“Open about their sexualities? Needs? Animal nature?” Balthazar offered and Castiel shrugged. “It’s very different for escorts and prostitutes here, my friend. Completely legal, tolerated and more than encouraged. It is seen as a way of life, some might even call it a necessity for societal entertainment. Those two…” he nods his head in the direction of the courtesans “...are some of the most expensive and reputable escorts Paris has to offer.”

“Inias and Hael are most definitely worth what their _maison_ charges. To my sisters and their guests, at the very least,” a third voice suddenly appears behind them, accompanied by a heavy rose scent that tickled Castiel’s nose.

“Your highness, Princess Margot. Are those the escorts’ names, Inias and Hael?” Castiel asks her with genuine interest.

“They are,” she answered him. “You may call me Meg, Your Highness. I find ‘Margot’ doesn’t suit me right,” she smiles at him good-naturedly. “The pleasure extends to you as well, Monsieur Balthazar.”

“You flatter us with such companionship, Meg. Please do address us as Castiel and Balthazar. A courtesy of this magnitude must be offered back,” Balthazar said. 

Meg’s smile broadened, and if he had to guess, Castiel would think that was her intention right from the start.

“You do not seem to care a great deal about decorum and propriety when amongst friends, Meg,” Castiel said.

“If one were to always be proper, even with their friends, what is the point of having them, Castiel?” she answered. “What a dreadful life that would be. Having nobody to lower your guard with, even between your own home’s walls. Do you not agree?”

“Oh, but we do! Castiel here especially.” Balthazar laughs.

“I must confess, that was not the impression I got from you, Castiel. You keep on surprising me. I like it, please continue to do so,” Meg laughed together with Balthazar and they both looked at him cordially.

He could not help the pull he felt, right at the corners of his mouth. So, he just let it happen.

xxx

Paris was a burst of activity, sounds and smells. People either walked with a purpose or lagged behind, enjoying their surroundings. Castiel was part of that second group. He stood in front of the impressive stone building ahead of him, his heart’s pulse resonating loudly in his ears. He could also feel it travel through his skin, on every centimeter of his body. He had been feeling like he was vibrating from the moment he escaped the palace, through the servant’s door, and the feeling continued to become more and more distinct, to the point that he thought it had become visible. 

It had taken considerable planning on both his and Balthazar’s part and a lot of exploring of the Palace of Versaille. First, he made sure to bathe in neutralising herbs, not wanting his scent to cause any trouble. Then, they had procured some plain civilian clothing - an entirely brown and beige ensemble - and managed to slip him out with one of the servant’s carriages that went into town on a daily basis. Castiel was very proud of their cleverness. He had only half expected this to work, preparing himself to be discovered and disappointed. 

Balthazar had remained at the Palace so he could provide Castiel with an alibi if anyone were to enquire about his whereabouts. This past week, they had attended several official meetings and parties, yesterday having been the last in the series for a while. Thus, they had both made it known that today they were to rest and be left to their own devices unless they directly called for assistance. 

_And by God, was it worth the risk_ , the young prince thought to himself, admiring both the Louvre and the people that were gathered on its grounds. Balthazar had told him that this was not peak time for tourism, and yet the number of visitors was nothing short of notable. He was curious to see just how many people could gather at those peak times. 

Castiel straightens his back, adjusts his coat - not his usual one so he does feel a bit naked - and his beret then starts making his way to the entry queue. His hands shook slightly as he handed over the entry fee to the guard. The inside took his breath away immediately. If he had thought the outside was beautiful, it was nothing compared to the inside. And it was all Castiel’s to explore on his own for the next few hours. 

He walked the Louvre’s halls excitedly, feeling like he was eight years old again in his mother’s greenhouse, following a group of bees around as they went from flower to flower. He sat on the benches provided in each room and allowed his mind to absorb the superb art in front of him, paying close attention to the strokes, imagining the way the artist might have moved their wrists and the way paint would be splattered at the base of the easel. At that moment, he was glad that Britain had started to be open to Romanticism (even if he disagreed with ignoring Rationalism, because why could these two not co-exist?) and his mother had seen it worth to have her children well versed in many forms of art.

More than halfway through his allocated time, he had moved along to admire the statues. Where the paintings had evoked many questions regarding technique and ideas behind them, the statues seemed to speak to Castiel on a much more personal level. They were all mesmerising. He found it incredibly hard to move from one to the next. They did not feel like chunks of stone and marble to him. He felt they were more alive than he had been lately, their faces full of emotions, their bodies posed in such a way that he felt they might get up and start walking any second. He felt more and more breathless. Oh, how could he have ever gone forward in life not knowing such beauty exists? It was blasphemous to him. If their Heavenly Father had left these amazing gifts for them to create and admire, would it not be disrespectful to go a lifetime without properly appreciating everything the world has to offer?

A couple approached him sheepishly and asked if he needed assistance. Apparently, Castiel had been staring at that particular statue for the better part of twenty minutes and they had grown concerned. He assured the two women he was alright, just entranced. They explained that they were on their honeymoon, the three of them falling in easy conversation.

Castiel was enjoying himself immensely in the uncomplicated exchange, when his lungs had quite possibly stopped working. He was about to start alarming when he understood what was happening. One moment he couldn’t breathe and the next his nose, throat, and whole abdominal cavity had been filled to the brim with the most unbelievable smell. 

It smelled of the first snow, of cinnamon confectionaries, and fine aged whiskey. It felt like each scent hit him separately and took the wind out of his lungs, only to return and morph together, wrapping around his skin like the softest blanket. It smelled of _home_ . It had _felt_ like home. 

Suddenly, he wasn’t excited about having true independence for the first time in his life anymore. He was suffocating with overwhelming homesickness, as if…

As if he’s never been home. As if he suddenly knew what a true home feels like and his heart threatens to barrage out of his ribcage in revenge for denying it this feeling for the last twenty-four years of his life.

He excused himself from the couple with half a word, knowing full well he must have appeared a lunatic. Castiel couldn’t find it in himself to care. His legs lead him around the waves of people, going faster and faster until he was practically skipping across the building. Every time he thought he was getting closer to the source of this smell, it seemed to disappear between the vast amount of other smells. Everything else smelled so wrong. Had the world always smelled so… awful?!

 _Please, Lord, do not deny me this. What even_ is _this?_ Getting closer and closer to the exit, an absolutely horrid weight settled at the bottom of his stomach. He could feel his eyes burn and sweat form under his beret, making his hair stick to his forehead. _No, no, NO!_ He knew, he just _knew,_ that if he did not find what - or who - was radiating this scent before it exited the museum, it would be lost to him. 

And, as is his poor bloody luck, that is exactly what happened. He burst through the exit and sat in front of the doors, his breathing ragged, his throat closed up and his heart cracked. It was not there anymore. Disappeared as if it had never existed in the first place. But it did. Castiel could still _feel_ the smell. How does one even feel a smell?! Preposterous. That does not happen.

With the swamping scent gone, his mind seemed to have started dehazing itself. What had just transpired? Had the Third Prince of England finally gone mad, just like half of the country believed he would? Had his brain finally decided it had enough and decided to shut down, leaving him prey to his instincts? He didn’t know what had just happened. 

What he knew is that he will most certainly never be the same after… _whatever_ that was.

Later that afternoon, he had arrived back at the palace via a private carriage, since he had missed the servants’ one on its way back. He had sat down on a public bench, lost to the world. By the time he truly came to, the sun had started its descent and he knew he had to go back before Balthazar split open from worry and confessed everything to the King, demanding a search party. 

Thankfully, that did not happen. Balthazar had been enraged, reprimanding him for his recklessness and demanding to know what had happened. He was reluctant to tell his friend what had made him act so rashly. Yet, he also desperately wanted someone to tell him he hadn’t gone crazy and that his reaction had been completely natural. 

Castiel opted not to worry his friend further. He did not know how Balthazar would react to finding out his stiff and always-put-together friend had had some sort of mental-slash-alpha breakdown in the middle of Paris. He told Balt he had just been distracted by the art and had lost track of time, which was plausible, further proved by the fact his friend readily accepted that excuse.

Castiel wished it had been that simple and that he didn’t have to go to bed tonight without being absolutely smothered by that smell.

###  **Dior's POV**

Dior is always the first one to wake up in the _maison_. They don’t have any housekeepers to help out so they have to do everything themselves. He isn't particularly bothered about it since he likes keeping busy and feeling useful. His body has developed its own routine so he is up before the sun has even started its ascent. 

The first thing he does is to light up his fireplace because the winter cold is unforgiving today. Afterward, he goes to relieve himself, once again thanking whoever it is that invented plumbing. He then makes his way downstairs to the boiler room to start heating water for himself and everyone else in the house. That will take a while and there is no time to waste so he doesn’t hang around waiting. The next destination is the kitchen, right across the boiler room. Dior checks their food stock and sighs. They’re down to the last of everything, not much else except bread and eggs. Thankfully, when he checks the front door he's thrilled to see milk has been delivered. With that, he quickly decides French toast is the way to go today, because just eggs and bread is a fucking disgrace for ‘such a fine establishment’ and his friends deserve a nice damn breakfast. He takes everything out and lays them across the dining table, ready to be prepared, puts the pans on top of the stove and the oil bottle on the counter next to it. He will need to write down a list for the groceries and this time he's going to make sure Crowley doesn’t skimp and buys them some sugar and maybe even cinnamon, if he’s convincing enough. 

With everything laid out and ready to be cooked, he checks to see if the water is done boiling. He fills the communal tub first, making sure there is enough water for everyone to soak at a comfortable level. Dior knows how important a good bath is at the start of the day and he’s going to make sure they never lack for that. 

After sending a pail up for himself as well, he heads to the first floor and wakes up Adrien. “ _Bonjour, beau_. The bath is all ready. Can you please wake everyone up to bathe and start on breakfast? Everything is laid out for French toast so ask someone to make the mixture and I’ll come down in time to help with frying.”

“ _Bien sûr_ , Dior. You can count on me,” Adrien’s sleepy reply came before he raised his head off the pillow. Dior smiled at the young boy, hair askew and drool marks running down his chin. He left the room but not before ruffling the boy’s hair some more.

His room was nice and toasty on his return. He gets his bath ready - foregoing the scent enhancing herbs today - and lays everything out neatly next to the tub. When he lowers himself in the water he winces. One of his regulars came yesterday and she ended up being more aggressive than usual. He could refuse her, of course, but a few cuts and grazes are worth it since she always pays more than his rate and hell will freeze over before he goes back to the second floor. So today he scrubs gentler than he has in a long time, making sure to clean the wounds carefully, an infection being the last thing he needs. 

When he's finished, he empties the tub and sits on his bed to apply an ointment to his cuts, having some trouble reaching the ones on his back. He tries some of the body butter one of his clients had given him, applying it generously over his elbows, knees, and heels as per their instructions. It’s unscented, which is welcome, and very moisturising. Dior decides he likes it and wonders if he could persuade Crowley to get this for him on a regular basis. 

He gets dressed in some of his house clothing, not wanting his better clothes to smell of food when he does start work, and heads back down to the kitchen. There he finds Lisa, one of the women on the second floor - a pretty thing with soft brown hair and doe eyes - finishing up the egg and milk mixture.

“ _Bonjour, chérie,_ ” he greets her, kissing her cheek and making his way to the stove, heating up the pans.

“ _Bonjour_ , Dior. Thank you for taking care of the bath for us again. You are too sweet for your own good,” Lisa says.

“Ah, you’re too much, Lisa. I enjoy it so it’s not completely selfless, you know,” he teases back.

Dior feels, rather than sees, her rolling her eyes. “Of course, Dior. You’re so selfish you don’t wake up an hour before everyone, prepare the bath, the food and make sure we’re up in time. How vile of you!” 

He laughs and throws her a wink. “Exactly.” 

Whilst he concentrates on frying the toast, people start trickling in the room and take a seat at the table. Two of the younger kids help him spread the food out and start serving drinks. Ruby only comes in to grab a plate of toast and a drink before heading up to eat in her own room again. Not without throwing a few insults in the room, mostly at Dior’s expense. He didn't mind, he’d rather she try to get under his skin than anyone else's. He was used to her antics and he stopped giving a shit a long time ago.

He chats with everyone whilst they work on their breakfast, him finishing first, and asks them to sort out the plates. When he comes into the foyer, he sees Crowley has finally decided to show his aggravating face at the front desk, going through some papers. 

“ _Bonjour_ , Crowley. You’re late,” Dior says, lifting himself on top of Crowley’s desk, switching to English quickly. He still has no idea why a Scottish alpha is running a French brothel. Crowley knows French, of course, but Dior prefers talking to him in English. 

Crowley fixes him with a sour look. “If it isn’t my favourite prostitute. As rambunctious as usual, thinking my expensive desk is his own arse warmer.”

“If I’m your favourite, I get desk privileges,” he tells Crowley with a noncommittal shrug of his shoulders. “We ran out of food this morning.”

Crowley looks back to his papers, “I will have them delivered today.”

“We’re also running out of soap,” Dior continues, “And laundry powder. And coal. And-”

Crowley interrupts him with a frustrated grunt. “I _get it_ ,” he scoffs. “Make me a list, send it down and be patient. I’m only one man and you’re all more than a handful.”

“Then it’s time you hired an assistant. And a housekeeper to cook breakfast and do laundry. We can take care of everything else,” Dior said, putting his feet on top of Crowley’s lap, pulling a holier-than-thou expression. “ _S'il vous plaît_.”

“If this is your way of asking nicely, I don’t want to know what the less pleasant version is,” Crowley replies, but does not move Dior’s feet.

Dior smirks at that. He knows Crowley only acts like he perpetually has a lemon in both his mouth and ass, but that he has a very soft spot for Dior. The older alpha has spent a few nights with him along the years, but only when he gets off his suppressants every six months as per his doctor’s instructions, and his rut hits. _‘It’s a medical necessity. I don’t make a habit of sleeping with my prostitutes,’_ he’d told Dior. Somehow, this meant that he took a particular liking to the omega and Dior wouldn’t complain. It let him get away with a lot.

“That wasn’t a no. I’ll take it,” he said. “What’s my schedule like today?”

Crowley looked at his diary, “You’re off to Monsieur Cain for most of the day. Starting at nine this morning and you’re due back by four this afternoon. You then have a full evening of bookings so make sure you’re back in plenty of time.”

“Awesome!” Dior exclaimed, took his feet off Crowley’s lap and leapt down from the desk, quickly taking off upstairs. This was amazing news. Cain had promised to call on him this week but he couldn’t help the worry that maybe he won’t, in the end. He loved spending time at the alpha’s estate, especially since he wouldn’t be restricted to the inside of the man’s bedroom. Dior was pleased that he decided to not use the herbs in the bath this morning since Cain had made it clear he hated it and asked him not to wear it when with him, if at all possible. 

He chooses an attractive burgundy attire that is comfortable to move around in and won’t stand out too much. Cain didn’t like being the center of attention and that was fine by him. He preferred blending in. He put the small knife that the alpha gifted him on a thin fabric strap around his ankle, under his trousers. 

It wasn’t long before the alpha’s carriage arrived to whisk him away to the estate just outside of Paris. It took the better part of an hour to get there through the busy Parisian streets. When he gets out of the carriage, he is greeted by the butler and brought into the dining room where Cain is about to have breakfast. Dior found it ridiculous how late nobles seemed to start their day, but never mentioned anything to the alpha.

“ _Bonjour_ , Monsieur Cain.” he greeted the alpha but did not sit down. He might be a prostitute, but even he knew you did not sit until your host told you to.

“ _Bienvenu, Dior._ Please, take a seat. Have you eaten yet?” Cain greeted and Dior took the chair at his right, as close as possible to the man. He took a subtle sniff of the alpha’s faint honeyed scent. 

“I have, but I will not deny a second breakfast if offered, _Monsieur_ ,” he replied truthfully. He would never say it out loud, but he always made sure not to eat too much in the mornings. It was just to make sure the rest of the escorts could have seconds if they wanted to. However, he couldn't deny that his appetite had grown recently.

“Joseph, bring out a full breakfast spread for our guest,” the alpha asked of his butler, and the man made his way toward the kitchen. 

“How are you inclined to spend the day, Monsieur Cain? I am not opposed to more knife-wielding training. Chess would also be agreeable as I have missed playing.” Dior asked, excited to hear what the man had planned.

“You did mention last time we came across each other that no one at the _maison_ seems inclined to learn. It must be frustrating.”

Dior gave a small shrug. “The omegas at the house aren’t very interested in education. They don't see the point of it and tend to focus a lot on the now rather than later; which I cannot fault them for,” he explained. 

“I see. Well, that is a shame. You know how to read, don’t you?” Cain asked and Dior nodded. Reading and writing was taught to him by the nuns at the orphanage he had lived at before Crowley had found him, after they had thrown him out. Of course, he won’t mention that speaking French was also taught to him at the same time. That was a story he wasn’t willing to share with anyone.

“I would like to give you some books, then. As you know, I prefer the company of words more than people and I would quite like to have someone to talk to about them that isn’t myself,” the alpha continued.

Dior couldn’t hide his excitement. He could never afford books and there was never any time to visit a library. A book would be a fucking awesome thing to have and he wasn’t about to say no. “You are too kind, Monsieur Cain. It would make me very happy to accept any you would like to give me. Maybe just… nothing too complicated to start with,” Dior meekly replied. He knew how to read, sure. But he wasn’t about to start with a philosophical book, the likes of which he knew Cain enjoyed. He did not have a very big vocabulary and he’d hate to embarrass himself by biting off more than he could chew. Sure, he had picked up lots of fancy words from his noble clients, but not nearly enough for heavy reading.

“Of course. We will go to my library and you can have a look around and choose a few you like the look of,” Cain said.

“Could I ask a favour of you, if it’s not too much?” Dior asked, continuing after the alpha had nodded. “Is it possible to also have a dictionary? Just so I have something to check if I find a word I am not accustomed to.”

Cain considered him with a strange look. Dior’s shame grew, heat rising from his neck all the way to the top of his ears. He should’ve kept his own damn mouth shut. Of course the man would feel taken advantage of. First he offers Dior not one, but multiple books as a gift, and then he goes and asks for more. _Bravo, idiot_ , he thought. But just as he was about to open his mouth and try to rectify the situation, the alpha started speaking again.

“ _Bien sûr, Dior_. I have to say, I did not expect you would need it. You are very well spoken, but if you will find it helpful, I am more than happy to provide one for you,” Cain said, simply sipping his coffee.

Dior wasn’t sure why Cain would think he didn’t need one or thought him well spoken. Did he just choose to ignore his unseemly speech and did not realise the extent of his ignorance? Or maybe he just could not fathom someone not being able to understand his books. Either way, Dior thanked him profusely for his benevolence.

“After we are finished in the library, I thought we might enjoy today by visiting the Louvre. It has been a while since I have been,” the alpha said.

“Really? I have never been, but I have wanted to for as long as I can remember!” he replied, elated. He has seen the building from the outside plenty of times, and every time he was taken aback by its aesthetic. He had envied the people who were able to go inside and enjoy their time admiring the art. Dior didn’t know a whole lot about art but he was very interested in learning more about it. He craved knowledge, which was silly, really. An escort doesn’t need to be smart, they just need to be entertaining.

“Very well. And afterwards, we will be dining for lunch in a town restaurant, if you’re agreeable,” Cain said. At this point, Dior would be willing to do anything the alpha wanted. Today was going to be one he’d remember for the rest of his life, he knew.

xxx

Dior wasn’t sure what he had expected the inside of the museum to look like but, _this_ , was not it. He had been in plenty of expensive mansions, yet none could even come close to the magnificence of the Louvre. It was pretty overwhelming if he was honest. Everything was full of history and brilliance. Even with his limited knowledge, he could name some of the paintings, their artists, and the year of creation. Cain seemed impressed with his insight and he couldn’t help but feel a bit proud. 

He and the alpha moved along the museum arm in arm, Cain explaining as much as he could about as many paintings and statues as possible. Dior listened ardently, finding everything so fascinating. He was also very impressed with the alpha’s vast art knowledge and did actually tell him so.

“My late wife,” Cain started, “she was an artist. She enjoyed art as much as she enjoyed life. It would not be far-fetched to say that she lived and breathed art. We spent much of our free time together; but when I was gone, art was her lover.”

Dior looked at his client whilst he spoke of his mate. He was aware that the alpha had been mated for many years and his wife had only recently passed away. The love he bore her was unmistakable. It was no wonder he became a recluse after her death. It seemed his wife had been _his_ life, just like art had been hers. He spoke of her as if she was a piece of art herself, a perfect creation of God, even her faults beautiful beyond reproach. 

Dior felt his heart clench painfully. Would he ever find someone to love him to that extent? No, of course not. Who would want a filthy, used whore for a mate when there are so many other omegas much better than him? He had nothing to offer anyone. Even his body was not his anymore. He tried his best not to let his thoughts put him in a bad mood. He wanted to enjoy today, fuck. This wasn’t the time to get depressed.

“It sounds like she was an enchanting lady. You seem to have loved her a great deal.” Dior said, softly rubbing the alpha’s forearm in a comforting gesture.

“I still do. We were true mates. This type of loss never leaves you and it doesn’t get better with time, either. Most of the time I feel like I’m just wasting away more and more each day I am without her.” Cain said.

 _True mates_ , the alpha said. Dior knew what those were, having read about them back at the orphanage so many years ago. It wasn’t anything proven or scientific, by any means. All that was ever recorded were people’s experiences and journals written off as research. He had assumed they were the ramblings of overzealous romantics. But if he was to believe what was right in front of his eyes, Cain and his wife had been such mates and it was proof enough for him. Dior might have been one of these romantics - not that he’d ever admit that.

“Her death has left me bare and hurting, Dior. In her last days, she had made it clear that I am to go on without her and that if I dared join her early by my own hand, she would not receive me and I’d be alone even in the afterlife.” Cain chuckled. “The most stubborn of betas, my mate. That is why I sought you out in the first place. I felt like this would be an easy friendship that could benefit both of us. So I want to express my thanks to you, Dior.”

It was a great admission from the alpha, baring some of his heart and thoughts to him like that. Dior recognised the trust that the alpha had put in him by telling him those things. It satisfied him immensely, knowing the man has chosen _him_ to be his companion. His _friend_.

“Monsieur Cain- “ Dior started but felt the alpha suddenly bristle next to him, his honeyed scent turning slightly lemon-y. When he turned his head towards him, he was surprised to find him tense and breathing heavily. Afraid he had somehow offended him, he let go of his elbow and was about to apologise but Cain beat him to it. 

“Forgive me, Dior. Would it be alright for us to depart now?” he asked.

“Oh. Must we? The museum is very enjoyable. If I have done anything to offend you- ” Dior started

“No, no. _Bien sûr que non, Dior_ . I give you my word that I will bring you back to finish touring the Louvre, but I am afraid we must go now. It is getting late and I need to have you back to the _maison_ soon,” the alpha explained, his composure seemingly getting stiffer and scent more bitter by the second. He was now puffing his chest up and was paying minute attention to their surroundings.

Without warning, the weirdest feeling set in Dior's gut. Almost like… like _anticipation_ . Which was stupid, there is nothing for him to be excited about. As a precaution, he takes a deep sniff of the air around them but cannot smell anything out of the ordinary. Just the common scents you would find in such a crowded place, and yet he turns his head in other directions, as if he is _expecting_ something else to emerge. Dior has no idea exactly what, just that his gut was telling him there _was_ something. It was annoying him.

Cain must have noticed him getting anxious and put Dior’s arm around his elbow again, leading him toward the exit. “Let us go, Dior. We still have lunch to attend and I don't want to send you home on an empty stomach.”

Dior didn’t bother telling him that every one of his clients would do exactly that, not bothering to show him such consideration. Keeping his mouth shut was better. He had opened the idiotic thing enough today, even he was growing bored of the sound of his voice. He let the alpha lead him out with no complaints, the feeling from earlier still heavy in his gut, but getting less insistent as they kept walking.

 _Huh. That was weird_ , he mused. 

xxx

Cain takes him to a nice but not luxurious restaurant and he appreciates it. He wouldn't have been comfortable in a more upscale place. His etiquette wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t that exercised, either. They were sat at a more private table and the alpha told him to get whatever he wanted, paying no mind to the prices.

They were halfway through their mains when Cain opened a surprising topic. “Next week, I will be holding a soirée at my estate.” 

“You, Monsieur? Pardon my boldness, but I thought you were not fond of these types of gatherings,” Dior said, honestly bewildered. His friend was a very private person.

Cain sighed and rolled his wine inside his glass, looking very put off. “Yes, me. Unfortunately, it appears my fading from high society this past year has insinuated to some of my business competitors, and other noble families, that my influence has fallen. They have become quite bold in their actions, if not plain foolish.” He continued, “My associates have informed me that I must correct this and the simplest way would be to host an extravagant party of my own. Flaunt my wealth like some kind of peacock. Preparations have been going on for the better part of last month. Everything is ready except for one thing…” 

Cain looked straight at Dior with an unwavering, yet oddly vexed gaze. It didn’t need a genius to figure out what the alpha was alluding to. 

“You would like me to lead the entertainment in the private parlours,” Dior stated simply, not breaking eye contact. 

Cain sighed and tore his gaze away, taking a big sip of alcohol. “Indeed. It appears high-end courtesans or escorts are a must at social gatherings nowadays. Apparently, not hiring one to lead the gaiety of the private parlour is a faux-pas and I cannot afford anything less than perfection for this.” The man seemed very troubled for asking this of Dior. His respect for him grew impossibly more.

“Of course, Monsieur Cain. I would be overjoyed to help you. You have been nothing but kind to me, how could I ever refuse this of you? Please, do not fret. I will do my best to provide you with _perfection_ ,” he vowed. If this is how he could repay his kindness, he was ready to jump at the opportunity. 

“ _Merci beaucoup, Dior._ You have eased the worries of this old man,” Cain replied. He already did appear in better spirits. “I know I don’t have to worry about you, but you ought to know there will be the most distinguished guests in attendance. The other duke, viscounts, marquises, etcetera. I have also invited the foreign representatives the Royals are currently hosting. The Royal family itself as well, of course. But they never make an appearance, the invitation was just a courtesy.”

Dior gulped. That was indeed a lot of the French nobility. He was nervous and felt compelled to share this with Cain. “I am afraid my etiquette might be inappropriate. I don't have any formal training for either social etiquette or dancing. I would loathe to embarrass you in your own home.”

“Nonsense. You must realise your manners are impeccable, Dior. And without proper lessons, too. Quite the feat. I am impressed and you should be confident,” Cain said. “However, if it makes you feel better, I can have you visit me a few days this coming week for some lessons.”

“Oh, would you be so kind? That would ease many of my worries. I only wish to help you as best as I can, Monsieur,” Dior replied, feeling better about this already. This whole conversation was giving him emotional whiplash, much like a sudden stop in a carriage would.

After lunch, Cain dropped him back at the _maison_. They shook hands and the alpha promised to be in contact with Crowley tomorrow in order to book the required days. Dior heads inside with a smile on his face, a bunch of books under his arm, anxious but happy. And, of course, that would be when Crowley had to open his pie hole and ruin it for him.

“Your next appointment is in the waiting room. Stop grinning like a cretin and go get ready, _chérie!_ ” Crowley barked.

“What crawled up your ass and died there, Crowley?” he snapped, baring his teeth. “Send them up in ten.”

One of these days he’d punch the lights out of this bawd’s head and he’d fucking _relish_ in it.


	3. The Unexpected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone,
> 
> First of all, I would like to thank each and every one of you for your comments and kudos - they've been the highlight of my days. Thank you for taking a chance with this fic and giving it a read!
> 
> Secondly, I want to apologise for the lateness of this chapter. It was written and beta-ed already but I've had a couple of family losses these past couple of weeks and my fic completely blew out of my mind, thus making me forget to update. I'm really sorry about that.
> 
> I've decided to upload this chapter and the next one together so I hope it makes up for the wait! 
> 
> The moment you've been waiting for is here - I'm so excited for these two to finally interact!!! I hope you enjoy the two idiots as well <3
> 
> \- Bunny

###  **Castiel's POV**

This particular ball is supposed to be a grand one. It had been the talk of the week amongst the foreign representatives during dinner. One of the Dukes had stepped back from high society for a while, very close to disappearing, and everyone was intrigued to see his return. Rather, everyone was eager to see this man fail and shame himself by proving he was no longer adequate enough for the high society.

Castiel pulled at his collar, uncomfortable. “Must I have worn this colour, Balt? I fear it might be too cheery for the Parisian trend right now. Everyone else appears to have donned dark colours.” He looked down at himself again, hoping to see the cornflower blue suit having changed into something more inconspicuous. 

“I assure you, my friend, you look positively _inviting_ ,” Balt told him with a smile.

Castiel flushed at his friend’s crass comment. “Must you always fluster me so?” He tugged at his waistcoat in an attempt to smooth out his nerves, perhaps.

All Balt did was laugh and gently nudge him forward. “Let us go. We are keeping the line of guests waiting.”

The Prince did not have the courage to look backwards and witness the displeased faces of French nobility. It would not have been the proper thing to do, regardless. And so they both made their way to the entrance where they gave their invitation to the butler and their capes and hats to a female servant. The butler greeted them appropriately then led them down the corridor. He went through a very large set of dark wooden doors with golden handles and immediately announced their presence.

“His Highness, Third Alpha Prince of England, Castiel James the First and His Grace, Alpha Lord Balthazar of the Roché Duchy,” the butler nearly yelled.

Castiel had wanted to wince at the attention but waited for the guests to dip in short bows and curtsies before making their way down the stairs and into the main room.

“That is always my least favourite part,” Balthazar admitted.

“Me too, Balt.” Castiel agreed. Of course, he hated everything to do with social gatherings but that part is always particularly unpleasant. 

The moment they reached the bottom of the stairs, they were offered a drink from one of the waiters, and Castiel couldn’t help but notice a peculiar detail. “I can’t smell them,” he said and continued making their way further down the room.

“Smell who, Your Highness?” Balt asked, using his proper title, as was the usual in a public setting.

“The servants,” he clarified. “They’re wearing perfume, but I cannot smell anything else. I sincerely doubt the whole household is made up of betas.”

“Ah. That is a precaution not a lot of nobles go through the trouble for. Their master must have had them use scent neutralising toiletries. It is to prevent any altercations between alphas.” his friend informed him as he stopped right in front of a table full of refreshments. 

Castiel looked at his friend, eyes growing wide and more scandalised by the second. “Altercations? Over omega dominance? Dear Lord, surely we have evolved enough as a society not to fall prey to those animalistic instincts?” he frowned.

His friend could only shrug. “Society has evolved, mayhaps. That does not mean all families progress with it.” 

Castiel looked around the lavishly decorated hall. It was a magnificent room, flower arrangements exuding luxury without being tasteless, soft runners in seasonal colours, candles and lamps assorted throughout, creating an inviting hue. He took a perfunctory sniff and was impressed to find that the whole area smelled deliciously of cinnamon. _What a lovely touch so close to Christmas. Scented oils in the lamps, perchance?_

“Well, regardless of the barbaric reason for the scentless servants, I must say it does leave room for appreciation of the gorgeous cinnamon smell in the room,” Castiel said.

Balt turned to him, an eyebrow raised. “What are you talking about, Your Highness? It reeks of alpha pheromones in here.”

Castiel mimicked his friend’s gesture. “I wonder if we should arrange for a physician to visit and check your nasal abilities. I cannot smell much except the cinnamon.”

It looked like Balthazar wanted to say something else but he never got around to it. A pair of alphas approached them and Castiel groaned internally upon realising who they were. He was hoping to avoid them as much as humanly possible. _Duke Alastair of the_ _Heyerdahl Duchy and Count Uriel of the Wisdomme County_ , he recounted to himself as a reminder to be civil. His social skills might be ‘rusty’ at best, but he could be diplomatic even if their conversation partners were two of the foulest people Castiel has had the misfortune of meeting.

“Your Highness, Your grace,” they both greeted, taking an appropriately-low bow. 

“ _Monsieurs_ , how lovely it is to see you here!” Balthazar greeted back, perhaps more stiffly than usual. “His Highness and I were starting to worry none of our acquaintances are here.”

Castiel did not add anything to that. Instead, he started drinking his liquor a bit faster. 

“ _Monsieur_ Cain is our business partner. We have worked together for many years,” Uriel says. While his tone might indicate that they are quite close to the host, Castiel had a feeling it was very much one-sided.

“We have been _très concerné_ about him. Ever since the death of his wife, he has become a recluse,” Alastair scoffed. “To make such a fuss over the death of one beta. There are thousands more willing bodies out there to warm his bed.”

Castiel could feel himself bristling at the words, anger trickling up his neck. The impertinence and coarseness of the older alpha were unbelievable. Insulting not only their host in his own home but also attacking his late mate, whom he seemed to have loved immensely. Alastair was the type of alpha the Prince hated most and he has had just about enough of letting them get away with their attitude.

Before he could open his mouth and cause a scene, Balt started talking again. “Well, I am glad to see he is ready to return to his friends. He has done fantastic work with this soirée,” he said. Castiel thanked his friend with a discreet nod for taking control of the situation.

Suddenly, the whole room quieted down around them; the change in atmosphere was palpable. They instinctively looked at the top of the staircase where the butler was standing to the side of three very imposing figures. The French princesses were announced and everyone in the room kneeled, waiting for them to reach the bottom of the stairs.

“You may all stand,” Crown Princess Abbadon demanded, and so they all did. “Do not let our presence keep you from enjoying the festivities. My sisters and I are here to show our support in our father - your King’s - stead to Grand Duke Cain.”

It was at that moment when another figure appeared at the top of the stairs, very obviously the Grand Duke. He spoke with a clear voice, his posture straight and proper, the perfect image of proud, dignified Alpha. “Welcome. You have all made me very happy by attending tonight.” he started. “I would like to take this moment to apologise for my absence this past year. I know I have worried friends and associates and for that, I am regretful. Tonight is to honour my late wife and mate, Colette.”

Castiel heard Alastair and Uriel give small sounds of displeasure. _How dare they_ , he fumed.

“We shall celebrate her life and the difference she made in mine. This is proof that I am ever a better alpha because of her. Please enjoy yourselves,” the Grand Duke finished and every noble started clapping as he disappeared back the way he came.

It did not take long for Meg to find her way to Castiel’s side, much too close for his comfort. He could smell an almost overbearing aroma of jasmine. He grabbed another drink off a waiter’s tray and drank half of the amount in one go. 

“We were not expecting Your Highnesses to humble us with your presence,” Balthazar quipped.

Meg laughed a pretty laugh, very much unlike her usual ones - the ones she gave Balt and Castiel in her waiting room back at the palace. “It is true my sisters and I prefer to do the inviting rather than be invited. However, the King thought it appropriate to show his support to his oldest ally on his return.” 

The longer the conversation went, the closer Meg got to Castiel. He did not find her aggravating at all, most of the time thinking her personality was energising to be around. However, he did not appreciate her fondness of physical closeness and found it very hard to concentrate on anything whenever she was in such close proximity. 

It was another thing that caused him and his family great anguish. Castiel felt his mood drop further at the reminder of his inadequacy. _‘How are you supposed to breed and ensure our lineage is safe if you refuse to touch anyone, Castiel?’_ , his mother had admonished him, after another failed courting. It was not her words that cut so deep, but the look in her eyes. His mother had looked _so_ tired and disappointed, and for a long time, the image had haunted his dreams.

He suddenly could not be in the room anymore. The only thing keeping him from running away was the cinnamon aroma still wafting around him. Castiel finished his third drink and quickly excused himself for some fresh air, not waiting enough to see the concerned look Balt had thrown his way.

Not having been in this estate before, he had a little trouble navigating it and finding his destination. After what had seemed like the fifth turn, he had finally found a quiet balcony. He let out a relieved sigh and promptly sat down on the bench overviewing the garden. He rubbed tiredly at his eyes. He cannot wait for this to be over so tomorrow he can smuggle himself out again and visit the Notre Dame.

He stared at the clear sky, a twisted satisfaction building in his stomach when thinking about how his parents would react to him visiting a Catholic cathedral. Not only to visit, but to _pray_. Castiel was a man of strong faith and often found solace in prayer. It made him feel less alone when he thought of the Lord and how He is ever-present in His children’s lives.

Sitting there, all he could do was try to relax and enjoy the cinnamon that seemed to cling to his suit. _Must be some very potent oils the Grand Duke is using_ , he thought. What was curious was the fact the smell appeared to be getting stronger. Suddenly, cinnamon was accompanied by whiskey and the smell of a first winter snow.

Before he could register what was happening, Castiel was standing up and holding onto the rails for dear life. His breathing was ragged and his heart threatened to either lodge itself in his stomach or throat. He did not understand what was happening. _Did someone poison my beverages? Am I dying? Oh, God_. Castiel clutched at his heart willing it to slow down, to give him a reprieve. His knees felt weak, making standing up painful and his balance was off, staggering when he turned around toward exit.

He started making his way, very carefully, toward the main room to alert Balthazar of his predicament. For all Castiel knew, Balthazar would not be able to help and he would panic a room full of guests. And oh, _why_ was the smell getting ever stronger the closer he got to the ballroom. A horrible yet wondrous feeling set in his stomach. He stopped walking as realisation hit him. _No, it cannot be… How…?_

He all but started running to take another corner when he collided with a sturdy body, causing him to stumble like a pup that had not yet learned to walk. For a split second, he was afraid he might actually hit the ground but a strong and comforting arm caught him round the waist and steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.

“ _Cher Dieu! Vous allez bien, monsieur?_ ” the man spoke, french rolling off his tongue with the easiness and familiarity Castiel envied. And yet, there was something else in there, a bit of accent that was not entirely local. It was deafening.

Castiel turned his eyes towards this person so fast he must have sprained his nape. His sight was overrun by freckles and gold and _green_ . It was endlessly green, it was moss on trees, it was damp grass after a storm, it was - it was _home_ . His breath hitched as his mind whispered one single thing: _mate_. What he had thought was whiskey was actually pecan - how could he make such a mistake? This person was all warmth and comfort folded in layers of yearning.

All he could do was stare. Stare at the way the green gleamed in the candlelight, the way the freckles spread across his face from cheek to cheek in such a manner it resembled stars on the expanse of heaven. A strong and elegant nose was perched right in the middle of them, a pair of shockingly pink and plump lips underneath what must have been the most endearing philtrum he has ever had the pleasure to set his eyes upon. Castiel did not know philtrums could be so spectacular. 

He was not aware of how long he must have been gawking at this perfect apparition. Because no real individual could possibly be such a vision. The world would weep and cheer with his every step, sing him praises and yell blasphemy at his existence. It seemed too long a glance and yet not long enough. His hand itched to touch, and caress and kiss - and was that not an incredible thing? Castiel wanted to _touch_ . He _wanted_ to. He needed to feel this - this divinity - or he would most definitely perish, never to be consoled again.

His hand started its journey home but never did reach the haven composed of dreams and desires. His midriff felt bare and abandoned, the welcoming limbs no longer attached to it, a sense of loss conquering his entire being, from the crown of his head to the tip of his toes. His inner Alpha desired to whimper aloud, a desperate need to _claim_ and _be claimed_ of immense proportions threatening to spill in the form of fierce tears.

“ _Tu vas bien, mon seigneur_?” he heard his mate say. No, not his mate, he painfully reminded himself. The omega - as sublime as he was - did not solicit such desires from Castiel. He would not burden this flawless soul with his unwanted longing to press his nose against the omega’s collar and immerse all senses in the glorious scent.

He tried his best to straighten himself and to reign in his craving to reach out and embrace the man in front of him. After taking a deep breath, he brought his attention back to the verdant eyes. “ _Oui, bien sûr. Je m'excuse. Je ne regardais pas où j'allais_ ,” Castiel managed to croak out. Marvelous, even his voice was betraying his wavering sanity. Let it be known Castiel James the First was barmy and asinine.

The omega bestowed upon him a small grin and the grip on his heart lessened. He was _beautiful_ and Castiel was comprehensively consumed by him. “Apologies are not necessary, my Lord. I am grateful to know you are unharmed. Were you on your way to the private parlour?” the man had inquired.

Castiel was decidedly not on his way there, knowing what he does now about them, but he would follow this omega to the ends of the Earth. All he need do is ask, and he will receive. “I - Yes. I appear to have lost my way, to my great embarrassment,” he replied, chastising himself for talking before filtering his response. He did not want to be thought of as a lascivious alpha who looks to moisten their member as much as possible.

“You are in luck then, my Lord. I was on the way back there myself. Would you care to accompany me?” the omega asked, nibbling on his bottom lip and an endearing flush appearing onto his cheeks, freckles now in full bloom. 

Castiel gasped faintly. He did not see any way in which this man could become even more captivating, but there it was. “If you will have me, _Monsieur_.”

Before Castiel could register any one thing, the omega was at his side, gingerly sliding his arm through his and started leading the way in the opposite direction of the ballroom. The world around him became a lie and the only truth he had ever known was this apparition that took the form of a man and whisked his wits away. There was nothing else but green, skin, and snow weaving into his consciousness. 

“Please call me Dior, my Lord, for I am not a _monsieur_ ,” the omega laughed and patted Castiel’s arm briefly. 

Castiel was going to contend such a fallacy but the words died in his mouth. Instead, all he could achieve was to try his name on his tongue. “Dior,” he repeated, heart flogging in his chest. What a fitting name for a deity with locks made of gold that had been worn and treasured until it took on a darkened tinge as a result. No other shade of gold will ever do again, they were ruined, never to be glanced at again.

When Dior only chuckled in response - a low and worldly sound - Castiel dared another glimpse at the omega. Air trapped into his lungs, he took in the toned muscle lines visible through the very snug fabric of his tailcoat and trousers, his lack of cravat and three undone buttons on his shirt, which in turn displayed an almost erotic sight of the top of his collarbones, freckles dispersed here as well. On anyone else, such an appearance would have scandalised the Prince, maybe even repulsed him to an extent. But oh… it looked terribly perfect on Dior. The dark emerald velvet of his attire only assisted in halting his thoughts further. 

The longer they walked arm in arm, the stronger the scent of delight became. Castiel thought it was him being so elated he had started smelling himself, but soon realised it was coming from the omega at his side. _How is this possible? Why am I able to discern his emotion from his scent?_ The only times he had been able to determine someone’s emotions through scent alone was whenever a family member was feeling something in a powerful way.

He never got the chance to broach the subject, for Dior showed him to the private parlour; a multitude of alphas mixing together, playing the ever present card games and pool. A quick look around the room revealed there were no acquaintances of his inside. 

“Here we are, my Lord,” Dior said as he placed one of his hands on Castiel’s shoulder, yet to let go of his arm. He leaned in closer, and for a second Castiel thought he might keel over. “If you require me, all you need to do is wave me down and I shall come,” the omega whispered, only for his ears. 

He wanted to ask Dior whatever he had meant, he wanted to grab his shoulder, to yell after him, to sweep him off his feet. Anything to stop him from putting such a heartbreaking distance between them. Instead, Castiel watched him go, back dignified and bowed legs sauntering alluringly away. 

Castiel watched him go. He watched Dior make his way to the poker table, not sitting but standing in the middle of the players, hands gripping the edge of the furniture, his back arching out the smallest of amounts, buttocks suddenly more pronounced and alarmingly curved. He watched him dip down to many of the patrons’ ears, much like he had done to him. He watched him clap and shower praise when an infuriating alpha grabbed his waist in celebration for a sub-par billiards move.

Castiel watched him and listened to his own heart give out. He loathed everyone in this room, at this very minute. They dared touch Heaven’s gift to Earth in a frivolous manner and not revere in every brush of Dior’s skin against their filthy bodies. His instincts told him to rip every single one of them apart, seize his omega and hide him in the safety of his own quarters, protecting him from every wicked grope.

There was just one singular quandary.

Dior was _not_ his omega.

###  **Dior’s POV**

_What exactly are you doing right now, you idiot?_

Dior couldn’t calm down. All of his senses were on edge, his body too hot and too cold at the same time. He felt as if he’d been taken over by some sort of madness, very similar to what the nuns used to call possession back at the orphanage. His actions weren’t his and yet he was perfectly aware he was doing them.

And yet… he couldn’t stop himself from trying his best to display himself as enticing as possible. He leaned down and whispered in patrons’ ears, he’d make an effort to laugh boisterously to dimwitted jokes and unimpressive pool moves. Worse, he kept positioning his body in such ways that his ass would be accentuated that was _just_ short of presenting himself. All for one incredibly mouth-watering alpha, with eyes blue enough that made Dior wonder if he’d ever even known the colour before, black hair so wild it looked like he’d just come back from a tryst - a thought which filled him with senseless jealousy.

Trying to regain his senses, Dior recounted the night’s events.

He had woken up, taken care of breakfast and the communal bath, then washed himself with plain soap. He’d put on his best suit, made sure his hair was perfect and then anxiously waited for _monsieur_ Cain’s carriage to arrive. When he got to the estate early afternoon, there had been no guests there yet so he was instructed by the butler to sit in the parlour and make himself comfortable. Instead of doing that, he made sure the parlour was in order, all the entertainment ready, candles in appropriate positions and the bar well stocked. That didn’t take very long, and so he found himself shuffling awkwardly around the room before deciding to make his way to the main ballroom and offering help to the staff running about. They all seemed to be appreciative of his help, obviously panicked about tonight and under extreme pressure. Dior was happy to help, as it kept his own fear of disappointing and shaming the alpha at bay.

Cain came to see him shortly before the first guests were due to arrive. He had thanked Dior again for his help and promised to pay him handsomely. _‘You do not need to do anything that you are not comfortable with, though some of my guests may make it seem necessary in order to have a good time,’_ he’d told Dior. They exchanged a few pleasantries but then the alpha had to retire and oversee some finer details before the festivities started.

Finally, after what had seemed like decades, guests started arriving, some slowly trickling into the parlour. Everyone appeared to be in a jolly mood and he prayed a silent ‘ _thank fuck_ ’ for not seeing any of his more annoying clients. 

It was easy work. Dior had been doing this for years so it wasn’t hard to keep everyone on the right side of entertained and lustful. No alpha came to a private parlour without the need to drool over an omega and grab and tug at them without shame. 

And so he’d let them touch and grope but never given them too much freedom. If they’d want to bend him over and have their ways with him, then they’d have to seek him out another day at the _maison_. Entertaining patrons at private gatherings was the best way of attracting good paying customers and Crowley always encouraged them to do so.

It wasn’t long before the parlour was brimming with alphas, their scents potent under a ridiculous amount of perfume. Dior had to stop himself from coughing in their faces, the smell so strong it made his nose itch and his throat constrict in an attempt to protect his lungs from the horrible stench. It had gotten to the point where he could taste them on the back of his tongue. He had almost gagged whilst hosting a game of poker - his speciality - and decided it was time for a fucking break. 

Dior excused himself and hurried out of the room, asking one of the servants to keep an eye on the table for him. The fresh air out in the hallway was a damn blessing. He could finally breathe again. He dared a look at his pocket watch and realised he’d already been at it for a few hours. No wonder he was getting grumpy. He took the opportunity to use the lavatory and then made his way further away from the private chamber. 

He strolled around for a few minutes, enjoying the decor and the paintings, smiling to himself when he’d seen a few signed ‘Colette Omundson’. They were peaceful, the images. Ease seemed to pour out of them and somehow he could see now why Cain had been so in love with her.

A feeling of warmth traveled up his spine, making him give a visible full-bodied shiver, all of his muscles suddenly relaxed. Jesus, that had felt amazing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so… cosy? Fuck, what the hell. Dior barely knew the meaning of the word, let alone how it _feels_ to be cosy. But then he’d taken a whiff of honey and old books, and an uncommon tightness gathered in his lower abdomen. He’s felt this pressure sometimes with his clients, if they happened to hit a particular spot, but mostly only ever felt it during his heats. 

Dior was strangely embarrassed when that feeling set itself firmly - and apparently quite permanently - in his stomach, noticing how it was travelling down to his now stirring cock. He was afraid he might start leaking slick any moment now, and so he did not move for a little while, trying to get a grip on his arousal. It wasn't a very successful try. That smell only seemed to be getting stronger, slowly destroying his resolve to run away. Instead, he started to walk briskly in the direction he thought it was coming from, coming to a halt when another body slammed into him unceremoniously. 

His reflexes reacted before his brain could catch up, arms and hands flying forward to catch the man who was now fastly heading for the floor. The moment his hands made contact with a shoulder and waist, Dior’s body reacted in such a way it took him by surprise. His heart was hammering in his chest, palms started sweating and - to his short lived horror - he could feel himself slick. 

This was bad. It was fucking bad. If the alpha caught a whiff of his arousal, this could mean very big problems for him. He needed to calm down - and _quickly_. So Dior did what he could - a brave attempt really, when all his idiotic body seemed to want to do was to present itself - and started talking.

“ _Cher Dieu! Vous allez bien, monsieur?_ ” he heard himself say. His grip on the alpha’s shoulder and waist tightened without his permission when the man snapped his head up to meet Dior’s eyes.

All he could do was gape. The man was undoubtedly an alpha, his heavenly smell making that painfully obvious. And yet, he seemed so soft to touch, so pliant under his hold, nothing like the rough edges every other alpha he had ever met seemed desperate to hold onto. It wasn’t that the man’s _body_ wasn’t fit. On the contrary, he seemed to be all lean lines and taut muscles - much to his groin’s approval. It was the way he held himself and looked at Dior, an unknown expression set on his face.

_Holy shit, his face_. What, did God decide he’d had enough of ugly humans and poured a few hundred years worth of beauty into this one man? High cheekbones that rolled into a perfectly sculpted jaw, chin that dipped in the middle ever so slightly - it looked like the perfect spot to pepper with kisses. Thick, pink lips perched atop the chin, sculpted to perfection as if to mock everyone else’s of their inadequacy. The alpha’s eyes were nothing short of terrifying. Dior shivered when he let himself sink into those depths. He’d seen his fair share of bright, almost icy blue eyes. But these? These radiated warmth and still managed to look the exact shade of blue you’d find at the bottom of a clear lake on a cloudy, early morning. With a rising heat in his gut, Dior wondered what they’d look like when the alpha climaxed, whether they’d brighten up or darken and whether he’d be allowed to watch them when it happened. 

It was with that embarrassing thought Dior realised neither he or the alpha had said anything for a while. He could feel colour spreading up his neck, wavering under the intense stare of his alpha. 

Wait - What? _Not_ his alpha, he scolded himself. _Get a grip, Dior. This is not the time for petty fantasies._

He slowly dragged his hands away from the warm body, a motion that was immensely difficult. For a second Dior thought the alpha was about to touch him back, but he knew better than to trust his brain right now. “ _Tu vas bien, mon seigneur_?” he’d asked, doing his damned best not to let the alpha’s smell overwhelm his senses, though that also proved pointless. Even breathing through his mouth did nothing to help.

Dior watched the alpha straighten himself up, retouching his cravat and pulling on his waistcoat. He allowed his gaze to trail down the man’s body, covered in a wonderful blue suit that did nothing but make him glow, as if he was the one radiating light. If anyone were to ask, Dior did _not_ feel drool forming on his tongue. 

“ _Oui, bien sûr. Je m'excuse. Je ne regardais pas où j'allais_ ,” he replied, the gravelly voice sending lightning through his spine, slight stiffness and accent present in the roll of his tongue. It was _obscene_. A groan almost escaped between his lips but he stopped it with a bite to the inside of his cheek. The alpha was looking up at Dior through his eyelashes, a motion so fucking adorable that should not have been possible with those masculine features. The coiling heat in his loins started travelling upwards towards his chest, causing him to feel strangely light and euphoric, as if anything he did would not matter. It was a giddy feeling, much like Dior felt after a good amount of liquor, but without the consequences.

Filled with a sudden bravado, he started flirting with the alpha, going as far as snaking his arm through his. He did not feel any remorse at that, it had felt right. It had felt better than anything was supposed to in his shitty life. That emotion tugged and prodded at his heart, intoxicating him more than any alcohol or opiate ever could. He knew the alpha wasn’t on his way to the private parlour, seeing as he was heading in the opposite direction, but Dior was desperate to not allow him out of his sight. Resorting to a bit of manipulation seemed the right thing to do at that moment, seeing how the alpha had played along regardless.

Although he was apprehensive to let this man sweep his thoughts so dangerously at first, he could no longer deny the deep _want_ pooling into his blood, pulsing with every heartbeat. The touches were innocent enough - Dior being used to a lot more - but he was still surprised to feel his arousal build up, aware he should be afraid of what could happen if slick started slipping in his undergarments and yet not finding it in himself to care.

He _wanted_ the alpha next to him to smell him. He wanted to see his eyes blow up in need and hear his breathing turn ragged. Dior wanted to see his composure crumble, whether that was on top of him or with the omega between his murderous thighs. Wouldn’t that just be bliss? If he wasn’t leaking slick already, Dior knew he would be now. The thought put a smile on his face and a quake in his legs. 

Reluctant as he was to depart from the alpha at the doors, he was eager to put on the best damn show he had in a very long time. He needed the alpha to look at him, to watch him, to _see_ him. He arched his back in languid movements, bent over shoulders, the pool table, anything at his waist, anything that would stretch the fabric of his suit and give bawdy peeks of his bosom. He caressed the patrons softly, the same way he’d like to touch the blue-eyed wonder of a man, with gentleness and not so subtle hunger.

Dior thought he was doing a great job. Even fantastic, really. It seemed like everyone he interacted with was sucked into his game and left reeling with arousal. He knew he was now trickling slick into his bottoms, unable to do anything about it or care that much. Nobody would dare touch him when his alpha was _literally_ just there. 

Chancing a look back at the center of his interest, - excitement throbbing in his ears to see the effects his display had caused - he was very quickly disheartened to find no splendid blue looking in his direction. It took a while to locate him in a far corner of the room, conversing with a sandy blond man, throwing easy smiles and small laughs his way, as if they were a commodity. 

It had felt as if someone had punched him right in the sternum, stopping his breathing and broken bones piercing his insides. Dior was no longer floating a few centimeters above the ground, a horrible force promptly hurling him back to reality. But for the chair he was currently holding onto, he would have most certainly collapsed.

_Fuck_. Of course this was going to happen. What was he expecting? He was a damn huge idiot for thinking he had had any type of effect on the alpha. The alpha who smelled sweet enough to make another alpha interested and handsome to the point of sin. How could he have ever dreamt that he held his attention for anything more than a peep? His traitorous body had deluded him, filling his mind with useless want that was not desired, making him forget who and where he was.

He knew his smell must’ve taken on the bitter taste of lemon, as it always did when he was distressed. From the corner of his eye, he could see the patrons in his vicinity scrunching up their noses at the scent. Dior knew he needed to get a grip, knew he had a job to do. He didn’t come here to dissatisfy Monsieur Cain and make a fool of him. Thus, he turned away from the chatting alphas and attempted to slide back into his work persona. 

It was damn near impossible. He was able to control his scent enough that nobody was able to discern anything different, whilst he still reeled from a deep feeling of rejection. Dior pushed forward, entertained, made some of the guests aware which _maison_ he could be found at and twisted his waist in ways that would leave him with a twinge in his back for a while.

It got easier when he realised the alpha was nowhere to be seen in the parlour anymore. Dior was _not_ looking for him in the crowd, _merci beaucoup_ \- a sigh of resignation finding permanent residence on his lips.

As if this emotional whiplash hadn’t been enough, _monsieurs_ Alastair and Uriel made an appearance. Dior wanting to growl at the pair of muttonheads, his last sliver of hope for no more unpleasant surprises vanished. He tried to avoid them as much as possible but knew it was a futile attempt, seeing as he was the only escort in the parlour.

He was assisting a female alpha with a game of chess against her companion when Alastair decided to approach him. “Why, if it is not my favourite whore.” he said with a disgusting smirk, giving one of Dior’s lapels a short but hard tug. “I am glad to see my dear friend still has appropriate tastes in bed warmers.”

Dior clenched his teeth and gave a small smile, turning away from the game with a flashy bow,“ _Mon Duc_! It is a pleasure to see you. Are you enjoying your evening? I see your hands are mournfully empty, allow me.” he said, waving down one of the servants that was carrying trays of drinks. “Two glasses of whiskey, halfway full, one neat scotch and the other bourbon on the rocks, please.”

The young servant gave a bow and a short ‘of course’ before heading off for their drinks. Alastair gave him what was supposed to be a gratified look, maybe, but looked near grotesque on his face. “And they say all prostitutes are stupid. It is good to know you can remember the simplest of things, such as your client’s preferred drink.”

Dior wanted nothing more than to give this knothead a piece of his mind. Instead, he fluttered his eyelashes in the way he knew got the idiot right to his groin, “I only remember the preferences of my favourite clients, _mon cher_ alpha.”.

Alastair snagged his waist tightly and leaned his face into his own, his pungent ash smell cloying the air. “Continue this beguilement and you might find yourself in danger, _petit_ omega.” he growled.

Dior felt bile rising, half wishing he’d empty his guts on the alpha’s shoes. Thankfully, that’s when the servant returned with their drinks, and without letting go of his waist, Alastair dragged him back to where Uriel was standing. A third person had joined him and Dior had to swallow his apprehension. It was no other than the Crown Princess Abbadon. 

It was very well known that the Crown Princess enjoyed the pleasures of prostitutes, having taken on two from _La Chambre des Anges_ and given them the status of courtesans but not the autonomy that comes with it. Dior knew why that was.

The Crown Princess loved being reminded of how above everyone else she was. She liked to dominate, to belittle, to subjugate, to _own_. Like all alphas, she was also extremely possessive, which is why she made the prostitutes courtesans without autonomy, so they couldn’t fuck anyone else but they were still cautioned to remember who they belonged to.

Which is why when she had first come to him at the _maison_ , hidden under a midnight-black cloak, he knew that he was screwed. He was proved right when she displayed all of her tools on his bed. Dior could still feel the cold sweat trickle down from the back of his neck all the way to his ass when he took in the whips and ropes and sharp little blades. No matter he was on the third floor, _nobody_ refused Royalty unless they had a death wish. That night - and every night she had come since then - he had wondered whether death would be so bad, worse than the burning pains and humiliation. 

Shaking himself from his trance, he extracted himself from Alastair’s hold and kneeled quickly. “Your Highness, Crown Princess Abbadon. What an honour for this lowly omega to be in your presence.” he greeted.

“Get up, omega.” the Princess replied.

Dior did as he was commanded and came up to see her sneer hungrily at him. He could feel phantom pains all over his body, wanting to flee. “ _Bonjour, monsieur_ Uriel. I hope you will join another game of poker with me tonight.”, he quickly greeted the third alpha, nodding his head back to the cards table, an inviting smile on his lips. 

“Would you like to join us, Your Highness? You do always make things so much more interesting.” Alastair said, coming behind him and inhaling around his scent gland sharply. “This little one also knows how to make things pleasant for alphas. We promise he won’t disappoint.”

Dior wanted to scream. He did not want any of them anywhere near his scent gland, lest they mark him and he ends up with their vile scents lingering for days. 

The princess raised a finger to his cheekbone, her perfectly manicured red nail lightly digging into his skin as she dragged it down to his jaw and then chin. “Yes, I can imagine he is simply scrumptious.” she purred, giving him a salacious sneer and grabbing his face in her hand, raising his head as if to inspect a piece of meat at the butchers. 

Dior felt smothered between the two alphas and Uriel’s gaze - which looked ready to take a red tinge at this display. He wanted to say something, anything, but the pheromones the three of them were throwing around made him stay quiet, the inner wolf instructing him this was a power display and he needed to _shut_ the hell _up_.

They all turned their gaze to the side - except Dior, as the Princess still had him in a death hold - when someone cleared their throat loudly, obviously meant to attract their attention. He didn’t need to see who it was, for the scent was enough to make him want to whine out loud. His relief was tangible as the smell of honey washed over his whole being, coating his dread and smoothing it over in absolute sanctuary. There was a twang to the musky, old book smell now, a deep layer of mold entwining with it. It should’ve made Dior afraid since such a scent change meant the alpha was annoyed at best and angry at worst. Instead, he felt overjoyed that the alpha cared enough to exhibit this behaviour for his sake. 

“Your Highness, _monsieurs_.” the exquisite baritone voice replied, impassive. The alpha did not sound impressed with this pissing contest. “I could not help but overhear you are planning on engaging in poker. Balthazar has abandoned me and I find myself in need of some…gaiety.” 

The Crown Princess finally let Dior’s face go but not before digging her nails in for a split second. His skin was smarting, sure sign she had left at least soft red marks, if not shallow scratches. Now free, he allowed himself to turn his head towards the alpha, surprised to find he was staring at him with the same intensity as back in the hall. It took his breath away, being the focus of those gems. 

“My, of course, Prince Castiel. Margot will be ever so envious I managed to entice you enough to join.” the Princess said, her sneer still not leaving her face.

It felt as if the ground was taken from underneath him and he was freefalling in the world’s biggest fucking ditch. 

_Prince Castiel_.

Not a lower-class noble. Not middle or upper-class, not even a Duke. The messy haired, walking fantasy of an alpha was the third Alpha Prince of England. Dior wanted to laugh. He felt positively hysterical, his life had become even more of a joke than it already was. It was one big farce after another. And this...? This must’ve been the biggest _‘fuck you’_ in the history of fuck you’s. If he had thought his heart had taken a beating when the Prince didn’t seem to be interested in him earlier, then the way his skin seemed to want to peel away from his bones and the searing pain in his ribcage was nothing short of a death row. 

In no lifetime or fantasy was he ever allowed to call Prince Castiel _his_. Even heaven would probably crack up at him for wishing he could at least spend his afterlife together with him. Dior had felt desperation and sadness many times in his short, miserable life. But nothing could have ever prepared him for this sense of loss. He never had anything worth losing so he couldn’t have known.

He couldn’t have known it would feel so… So empty. It was not his to begin with and yet this hole threatened to drown him and never let him go. Dior thought he might as well let it do as it wishes. 

He closed his heart off like he had so many times in his past. He could physically feel the stony remains being encompassed in ice as he led the four of them to one of the tables, laid out the game for them and offered drinks. If his nose decided to develop a mind of his own and inhale the honey scent, that was none of his business.

“I am afraid this will be the first time I will have played poker.” Prince Castiel said, looking slightly abashed at the cards in front of him.

“Not to worry, Your Highness.” Uriel replied, “The _petit_ omega here is well versed in the game. Dior, assist the Prince with the first round.” 

It was the last thing he wanted to do. Dior smiled and walked to the side of the Prince’s chair, placing a careful hand on the back of the chair, making sure not to touch any part of the alpha. “It will be my pleasure. Please do not keep it against me if His Highness wins.” he said, leaning in and throwing a wink at the table. Turning to the Prince he gave him a small smile before returning to the table, “Let us begin.”

And so Dior helped the young Prince maneuver his way through his first game, explaining rules as they went. He looked very serious throughout the round, taking in everything Dior said as if he was spouting poetry and not facts. Something he had learned about the alpha was that he was as straightforward as they came and did not cower from speaking his mind, tact and all. An admiring trait in this two-faced world where everything had an innuendo. 

He had also learned that if Prince Castiel was confused or uncertain, he tilted his head to the side in what must have been the most endearing motion mankind has to offer. He squinted his eyes slightly, a small frown on his lips and slight line between his brows. Dior’s fingers twitched, wanting to smooth out the crease every time it appeared. 

He’d tried, he really did. He didn’t fucking want to find the Prince adorable or handsome or steal soft caresses with the tip of his fingers on the alpha’s arm whenever the omega explained something about his cards. Dior most definitely did not want to feel compelled to sit on the armrest of his chair and whisper lowly in his ear, close enough that he could easily pepper the lobe with a peck and nobody would know. 

Dior did not leave the Prince’s side until the end of the game, which they had indeed won. The other three alphas laughed. 

“As fun as that was, I’m afraid I must return to the main ballroom now.” the Crown Princess said, getting up and nodding briefly in their direction.

“Let me accompany you, Your Highness.” Uriel said and followed the Princess to the exit.

Next, it was Alastair that got up “Thank you for the game, Your Highness. Shall we head over to the billiards table now? Omega, come.” he commanded, all alpha authority. Dior didn’t even think about it as his body headed for the man. 

He stopped in his tracks when he felt the softest touch to his wrist. He peered at Prince Castiel as he got up slowly and smoothed out his waistcoat. “Actually, I was hoping to dally in another round of poker and I do not yet feel confident about playing on my own. But please do enjoy the billiards, _monsieur_ Alastair.” he said, back straight and gaze unwavering. His scent took on a steely form, thick enough that it left no room for argument.

Dior knew enough about noble interaction to see the Prince’s reply for what it was: a command for Alastair to depart on his own. He had never seen someone command the alpha like this before, so confidently and with no remorse. He could feel Alastair wanting to snap but then realising who it is he’s dealing with before bowing and leaving with the proverbial tail between his legs. It was incredible.

Prince Castiel stepped around the chair, coming face to face with Dior. His heart was pounding in his ears with the alpha so close to him and having his undivided attention. He realised the Prince was a few centimeters shorter than Dior, giving him a lovely perspective of his face. 

“I would like to offer my apologies.” he registered the Prince saying, leaving him dumbfounded. There was absolutely nothing for him to apologise for, and even if there was, what Prince apologises to a whore?

“Your Highness, please don’t apologise. I don’t even know what it would be for.” Dior hurried to say, his hands wringing together.

A flash of hurt seemed to pass over the Prince’s features for a second. “You were kind enough to show me the way earlier this evening and I did not even have the courtesy of telling you my own name.” the alpha clarified, his expression bright again, a shy smile spreading on his face, white teeth peeking beneath. Dior felt his knees quiver.

“I am humbled, Your Highness. It was my pleasure to be of help.” 

“And thank you, for teaching me poker. You saved me from humiliating myself in front of my… unlikeable peers.” Prince Castiel said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. Dior almost choked on air in his haste to keep a laugh in. For some weird reason, the Prince’s scent started turning slightly sweeter and Dior could swear he was smelling _happiness_ between honey and books. Ridiculous.

He coughed trying to regain composure. “I enjoyed it greatly. I am fond of teaching people parlour games. I’ve been told I’m quite adept at them.”

“I can see that. Your instructions were very clear and easy to understand.” The Prince smiled, a soft gesture, which forced a similar one from Dior himself. “I am afraid I do not attend enough social events back home to have needed this knowledge.”

“What a shame, Your Highness. You are a very attentive pupil. I can only wish everyone was as eager as you to learn.”

The alpha did his head tilt again, slightly exposing his neck. Dior was sure the Prince wasn’t being submissive on purpose whenever he did that, but it drove him crazy. All he wanted to do was bury himself in the crook of his neck and never come back up. “I would have expected most guests would not need to be taught the rules. Everyone in France seems to relish in these events.” Prince Castiel continued.

“I was referring to my friends back at the _maison_ , Your Highness.” Dior corrected, a pang of shame hitting him, causing a very small flush to raise to his ears. He really didn’t want to remind the Prince he was wasting his invaluable time talking to a prostitute.

“Oh.” was all the alpha had said, followed by several long seconds of silence. Well, he’s gone and done it now, kicked himself in the face and ate the damn foot as well. 

Dior was about to excuse himself when the Prince started talking again. “I could…” he started, looking unsure for a moment, a light pink tinge spreading beautifully across his cheeks. “If you would be amenable, I would like to come visit you at… at the _maison_. For you to teach me some more of the games. I am sure my friend would be thrilled to see I am taking initiative to be less of ‘a stick in the mud’”.

Dior’s mind was running ten thousand kilometers per hour. His brain barely took in that absolutely precious gesture, where the Prince had used actual air quotes, as if it was the most natural thing to do. 

No, his brain was having trouble understanding the part where the actual fucking Prince of _bloody England_ said he’d like to visit him at the _maison_ to be _taught more of the games_. Forget small flushes of his ears, his whole damn face was on fucking fire, ready to melt off and slide on the floor along with the slick he could feel forming. He couldn’t help imagining all the implications of that statement. He also couldn’t bear thinking about it.

His alpha wanted to see him again. He wanted to seek him out and spend time with him. He looked at the man in front of him and wondered how one person could have so much control over him. His wolf whined and scratched on the inside, intoxicated with devotion and wanting to show it. 

He could feel his face break in what must have been a hugely dumb smile. His face hurt, using muscles he almost never used. It only grew that much bigger when _pride_ seemed to bloom in the alpha’s scent. Seriously, what the hell was he on about, thinking he can smell _emotions_?

“Yes.” he replied breathlessly, no more than a whisper, “I would know no greater pleasure than to receive you, Prince Castiel.” Dior continued, barely managing to string the sentence together.

“Phenomenal!” the alpha beamed, looking close to ecstatic. “Tell me how this works, I have never called upon such an institution. Would an appointment be appropriate?”

“An appointment would ensure that I am otherwise not… preoccupied.” Dior informed him, grimacing. “I reside at _maison Sérendipité_ . It’s on _Boulevard Gehenna_ , number 66. You will need to send a letter through one of your footmen asking for an appointment specifying a day -” 

The Prince interrupted him with a raise of his hand “Could I not come and make an appointment myself? I will send a footman if that is protocol, of course. I am merely curious.”

“Well - I mean, of course.” Dior started, confused as to why an alpha of the Prince’s status would even contemplate stepping into a _maison_ for longer or more often than necessary. “You are welcome to come in and talk to the bawd yourself, Your Highness. It’s just - a lot of our patrons prefer mail.”

“I see. Very well, I will send a letter, if that is what you would prefer.”

“Whichever way you prefer, Your Highness. As I was saying, specify the day you’d like to see me and then my bawd will reply with the available times.”

“And payment?”

“It is by the hour, Your Highness. Payment upon your arrival. My bawd will communicate the rates through the letters.”

The Prince seemed pleased with the information. “It sounds simple enough.” he looked at Dior and looked like he wanted to say something before changing his mind. “Thank you, Dior. I need to depart now. Meeting you was the highlight of my evening and I am looking forward to seeing you again.”

Dior’s heart clenched at the words. He wanted to tell him that meeting him has been the highlight of his _life_. Instead, he settled for something less disturbing, “I bid you a good night, Your Highness. It was delightful to meet you.”

The alpha and omega stared at each for a minute more, both engrossed in each other’s presence, not ready to say goodbye. Dior wanted to reach over and press a kiss on the Prince’s cheek, show him how much he has affected him, how much he yearns for him. They finally bowed and the alpha turned around, heading towards the same sandy-blonde man he was with earlier. 

Dior watched him go.

He thought about him as the night went on. He imagined his beautiful smile and kind eyes as patrons continued to poke and prod him. He recounted the way he smelled, the way it took a moldy tinge when distressed. 

He thought about the way his retreating form had looked like something out of a painting in the Louvre, all straight lines, bright and full of promise. How his black hair shined blue in the soft light of the candles and seemed to be home to a pair of hands that never ceased their caresses.

He thought of all of those things as he bid goodnight to _monsieur_ Cain, as he rode the carriage to the _maison_ and as he bathed. When in bed, surrounded by his blanket and listening to the crackling of his fireplace, he thought about how it was all probably a dream and he had finally gone mad.

  
  
  
  



	4. A Pleasant Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter notes:   
> singlestick - a slender, round wooden rod, traditionally of ash, with a basket hilt  
> Foil - a sword with a light, flexible blade of rectangular cross-section tapering to a blunt point.
> 
> As far as I could find, hematology in our world only started to be a thing in the mid 19th century but I think in a world where blood bonds/mating, rejection/pining sickness etc. existed because of those bonds, they’d start taking an interest in it a bit earlier. I also have close to no knowledge about blood so I’m basically making it up as I go. If you were hoping for scientific accuracy… You’re not going to find it here, lol.

###  **Cas’ POV**

Sweat trickled down Castiel’s forehead, breath ragged, and muscles strained from the rigorous sparring matches he has taken part in this morning. Having woken up feeling both anxious and excited about today’s prospects, he had felt the need to exercise. Reading would not have had the desired effect on his restless mind.

And so, this morning he had his bath and breakfast, and then asked a servant to show him to the training grounds. The guard leader had been quite surprised to see him but had also been very accommodating, providing him with necessary equipment for training. It had been a bit of a slow start, as none of the guards seemed happy to spar with him. He understood their reticence, most probably did not want to risk injuring a prince of England. Thus, he trained by himself for a little while.

He ran a few laps around the training grounds, focusing on his breaths and posture. When he felt his muscles warm up and unwind sufficiently, he turned towards the practice swords - singlesticks, he noticed, instead of practice sabres like back home - then proceeded to use one on the training dummies. 

With movements practiced and ingrained in his subconscious, it hadn’t taken long for his mind to wander whilst his body went through the familiar motions. 

Castiel’s train of thought carried him through that dazzling evening when he’d met the splendid man with a slightly hooked nose and a smile as bright as the sun. It would be a vast understatement to say that his reaction and - and  _ attraction  _ to him had taken him by surprise. If he was to be honest with himself, he wasn’t sure what he was to do with himself and the feelings that seemed to have pooled in every joint of his body. 

The Royal court back home would say many a thing about their Third Alpha Prince. That he was soft-hearted, single-minded, or perhaps even boorish. None of which Castiel agreed with, of course (except maybe the last one on occasion, especially in matters of diplomacy). What could not be said, however, was that he was volatile in any way, shape, or form.

And yet here he was, fidgeting and unsettled to the point where he could physically feel his patience wearing thin. Time suddenly appeared to have slowed down. A day felt like ten. It was a ludicrous notion, certainly. 

No, was all Castiel’s inability to reign in his enthusiasm about seeing the omega - Dior, again.

He had arrived back at the palace after the ball and gone to bed. Sleep had evaded him, a thrill thrumming in his veins, making him toss and turn under his blankets and willing daylight to make its appearance with haste. And when that did not happen, he had decided to make better use of his time and made his way to the writing desk, grabbing his best stationery - pure white, thick, and handcrafted - for the reason that it showed professionalism and hopefully assure the establishment’s owner that he was nothing less than a gentleman.

A gentleman with a simple request. He had signed the letter with his middle name, James, unsure whether it would be safe to use his first. 

With the letter written and carefully placed in a sealed envelope, his inner alpha seemed placated enough that he’d taken action to see the omega again. It allowed him to shut down, evasive slumber finally enveloping him.

Still, the prince hadn’t slept long and woken up before the servants even had a chance to come and light his fireplace, thoughts flying straight back to Dior the moment he came back to consciousness. He’d gotten lost in recalling every single detail of the evening, of how wonderful the man had smelled, the way he walked - one leg in front of the other and yet thighs barely grazing, a positively alluring bend to them, freckles clustered closely on the bridge of his nose and panning out on his cheekbones… 

Castiel had completely forgotten he had arranged with Balthazar a trip to Notre Dame that day. His friend found him still in indoor clothing when coming to fetch him. Balt was very curious about what had him so aloof. Not that the prince had given him an answer. A source of great frustration for the other alpha but not enough to derail Castiel from envisioning how his visit might go with Dior, whilst very convincingly appearing interested in the architectural wonder that was the cathedral. He wished vehemently that he’d be invited a second time and given an opportunity to get acquainted properly, or God be so benevolent - befriend him.

Would Dior allow him to visit often? Would he bestow Castiel the honour of taking him out to dinner or even a walk through  _ Bois de Boulogne _ ? To see him off with a kiss on the hand?

Castiel could  _ hear  _ his heart beating violently in his ears, apparently attempting yet another brave escape from behind his ribs at that possibility. The organ suddenly felt too big for his body, constricting his lungs and stomach into one big lump of flesh. Thus, it was almost inevitable that he lost control over his next swing of the sword, trying to catch his breath.

It was a little embarrassing when he managed to cleanly cut off one of the dummy’s arms, having put too much force in his swing. He took a look around his surroundings, concentration broken. He was mortified to see most of the soldiers staring at him, agape. Wincing at his own clumsiness, Castiel wanted to go over to the Commander and apologise for his lack of restraint. However, he was stalled when a young alpha lad stepped in his path and bowed.

“Your Highness, my name is Victor. Would you like to spar with me?” he’d asked him, speech pristine and with a determined look in his eyes. 

Surprised, but not unhappy, Castiel nodded firmly, “That would be fantastic. Dummies are good for form practice but not so much for combat.” He did not add that having a living sparring partner would be a better distraction for his devious mind.

Victor gave him an amused smile. “It definitely looks like  _ that _ one didn’t stand a chance against Your Highness,” Castiel wanted to run and hide. “But perhaps I will be a worthier opponent.”

They kept using the singlesticks, Castiel having received a bewildered look when he asked for a sabre or foil. Victor proved to be a strong opponent, although Castiel thought he could benefit from more instructions on his form.

It was not long before Castiel disarmed and unbalanced the soldier, sending him to the ground, belly-up. The grounds were quiet for a short moment before tentative cheers started and Castiel offered the lad his hand, hauling him to his feet.

“That was an amazing match, Your Majesty,” Victor had said to him whilst they shook hands. “You know where to find me if you ever find yourself in need of a training partner.” Castiel praised his strength and skill, offering a few tips on his form. Victor appeared pleased with the advice.

It had seemed like his match with Victor was the trickle to destroy the dam; the prince found himself assaulted with dueling requests. He was more than happy to oblige as many of them as he could bear.

Soon, he took a small break to quench his thirst when a footman arrived to let him know mail had been delivered and a few letters were awaiting him in his quarters. 

It was very hard to remember his manners and make his departure known to everyone in his vicinity. He all but ran to his room, excitement rolling in waves off of him at the prospect of what one of those pieces of paper might be. 

Once in his room, he quickly put aside the three letters from people he was already acquainted with and promptly opened the one from a  _ Fergus Crowley _ , a name he did not recognize. 

_ Dear Sir, _

_ Thank you for your letter. I can assure you it has arrived safely in my hands. _

_ For clarity, the omega you have enquired about is Dior, male at 1.86m, dark blonde hair, green eyes, and athletic build.  _

_ As requested, the earliest he is available is tomorrow starting at 17:00.  _

_ The hourly charge is 25 (twenty-five) French Francs (FF).  _

_ There is a set charge for 12 (twelve) hours which is 300FF (three-hundred) for the first booking and any return booking for 12 (twelve) hours will be 250FF (two-hundred-and-fifty).  _

_ The maison’s rules will be communicated to you upon arrival and payment is always upfront and in full.  _

_ If you are happy to proceed, please inform me of the amount of time you require and unless you hear back from me, it means I have set it in the books. _

_ Kind Regards, _

_ Fergus Crowley _

_ Bawd at  _ _ maison close Sérendipité _

_ 66 Boulevard Gehenna, Paris _ __

Castiel’s first instinct was to be surprised at the meager amount Dior’s time seems to be worth in his establishment’s eyes. His next one takes him completely by surprise when he can trace the exact route goosebumps rise on his skin followed by a horrible, angry heat. He felt his hypothetical shackles rise because how  _ dare anyone _ think the omega’s time was anything but  _ priceless _ ? If they put such a low price on his time, how must they treat him on a daily basis? He hoped his worries would end up being unfounded, otherwise he might lose his temper - an unbecoming sight he’d rather not show Dior.

He wrote a reply quickly, requesting he be granted a three-hour visit starting at five the next afternoon, and sent one of the footmen to deliver it straight away. Once the young beta disappeared out of his quarters, he sat in one of his armchairs and tried his best to soothe the ache in his lower abdomen. Castiel had been feeling unlike himself ever since meeting Dior. 

Yes, he had been in a much-improved frame of mind, most of the time having this  _ incredibly  _ light feeling settling in his heart and stomach, but he had also started to be a lot more susceptible to negative mood fluctuations as well. If his mother was here, the prince was sure that she would be beaming, announcing that he was finally settling in his  _ ‘alpha skin’ _ . 

Castiel never understood why being alpha meant you needed to fit a very specific set of traits in order to qualify as adequate. Of course, he also believed his gender was not superior to the other two, except for their biologically enhanced physical strength. 

That mindset made him a very unwelcome presence in the courtroom or the judicial meetings. Dismissal of his ideas and conceptions was a common occurrence, usually followed with replies stating he is still ‘wet behind the ears’ or ‘too progressive’. A particularly infuriating councilman had once dared to accuse him of wanting to throw the Kingdom in disarray and panic by putting ‘blasphemous ideas’ into the people’s heads. 

Needless to say, that was not an especially bright comment, seeing as it was addressed to a member of the Royal Family and was nothing short of a treasonable act. To Castiel’s great dismay, that particular alpha had been suspended for a mere week before being allowed to return.

What he had seen of the French Empire until now suggested that they were not much better off in regards to primary gender equality than his home country. It saddened him greatly, that the Heavenly Father’s children could harbour such disdain for one another, that they abhorred each other’s difference instead of embracing and loving them. What if society started marginalising people for more than their primary genders? Such as secondary gender, or, Heaven forbid, skin colour. Castiel just really could not understand this discrimination.

He steered his thoughts away from politics and thought about how, in less than twenty-four hours, he would be in the beautiful omega’s company. That alone was enough to lift his spirits immediately. Castiel had given a thought about how to approach his visit. 

The prince was not naive, he knew what the establishment was, but had no idea if him attending one for a few short hours would have a negative impact. The French did not seem to have any qualms about their carnal activities, although the responses might be different for him, as a foreign prince.

Knowing that he was, indeed, like a fish out of water in regards to the best approach - and also very eager to just share this exciting development with  _ someone  _ \- he got up and made his way toward Balt’s quarters.

He knocked on his friend’s door before opening it and making his way inside. Castiel regretted his decision immediately, upon his vision being assaulted with a curvy and  _ naked  _ figure jumping up and down on an equally naked Balthazar’s lap. The smell of alpha arousal, omega slick, and semen was enough to colour him vermillion from ears to neck.

Thankfully, the woman became aware of his presence almost as soon as the door swung open and quickly made to cover herself. Balt made a disgruntled noise and leaned his head back to look at Castiel upside down from the edge of his bed.

“Your highness.” He said, gritting his teeth. “Do you mind? We were almost finished and I’d like to keep my balls from turning blue.”

Castiel, who was shamefully rooted to his spot until that point, made a quick exit, slamming the door behind him and returned to his room. It was not the first time he’d had the misfortune of coming across a copulating pair (he had been very surprised to find out, as a child with a taste for exploring and a curious mind for a weapon, that people would engage in this activity  _ anywhere _ ), and yet it continued to perturb him just as much as the first time.

He shook his head to dissipate the images and had a sip of water, deciding that waiting for Balthazar was the best course of action, just in case Castiel underestimated the alpha’s virility and returned prematurely. 

Half an hour later, Balt burst into his room - courtesy of knocking forgotten - dressed in a dressing gown billowing around his ankles. He was obviously still very much nude underneath.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “Must you walk around in that state? It is winter, surely you must be freezing.”

Balthazar made straight for the fireplace, turning his backside dangerously close to the open flame. He closed his eyes and sighed contentedly before answering Castiel. “It was only a short walk from my room to yours and I knew a warm fire would be waiting for me.”

“If you do not care about your comfort, maybe you could spare me a thought and not have me subjected to your nudity.”

“Why, Cassie, are you calling me unattractive?” Balt gasped in mock offence. “I have been told repeatedly that my limbs are very beauteous.”

Castiel could not help but chuckle at his friend. He took a seat in one of the armchairs next to the fireplace. “I am sure the omega in your bed must have thought so. Now, is your posterior warm enough?” he said, gesturing at the way the other man was rocking his hips left and right as if to attract as much heat as possible.

“Not quite, give me a minute.” Balt grinned. “How are you doing, Cassie, dear? I mean this with all the offence in the world, but you reek - which I presume has to do with the fact you are in training attire.”

Castiel looked down at himself and was surprised to find he was still in his gear. He was so lost in thought he had forgotten to bathe and change. That was not something he ever did, always being very meticulous about his hygiene. Then again, his cognizance appears to have taken a holiday these past few days.

“It appears I am a little bit distracted,” he replies, feeling sheepish.

Balt snorted at his admittance, which in turn made Castiel want to kick his friend in the shin. “A bit, he says! You’ve been out training,” he states.

It is Castiel’s turn to scoff. “Thank you for your insight. I had not noticed.”

“What’s on your mind,  _ cher _ ?” Balthazar said, his eyes turning soft and making his way toward the prince, sitting on one of the armchair’s armrests.

Castiel slumped in the chair and looked up into his friend’s eyes. “I need to go to a  _ maison close _ .”

To Balt’s benefit, he only hesitated one second before he stood up from the armrest and sat on the coffee table instead, so he could face the prince head-on. “I see,” he replied slowly and carefully. “Not that I’m not thrilled, but what has brought this on?” 

Castiel looked away and out the window, wishing he could open it and give the air a sniff. When he was out earlier, it smelled like snow. “I have met someone.”

This seemed to pique Balthazar’s interest and he stood straighter, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “And who, exactly, is this someone? A bawd at the brothel? Maybe a scullery maid who lives on the premises?” he smirked in such a way that made Castiel realise his friend was teasing him.

“No, Balt. It was one of their omegas.”

Balthazar was almost giddy when he replied. “An omega, you say? They must be something else if they managed to catch the eye of the most unavailable alpha bachelor in the whole of England! Do tell me more.”

The prince smiled softly and his eyes strayed whilst he recounted everything about Dior. From the way his bowed legs moved, to the soft but deep tune of his voice, and all the way to the fact that his smell made him want to weep in homesickness. 

“He was just so beautiful, Balt. I have never met anyone like him. I swear he glowed, I could not have imagined it. His eyes were open and so warm, it felt like a soul bared. It almost hurt to look, to see that spark and not be blinded.” Castiel dared a look at Balt. He was feeling very vulnerable - as if he had shared a big secret or maybe a big shame. He did not want his friend to judge him.

A look at the other alpha was enough to prove to him that such a thing would never come. His friend was smiling at him, soft and playful. It gave him the courage to continue. 

“And so, I found myself asking to meet him again. He gave me his  _ maison’s  _ information and told me how to request visitation. I have arranged for one tomorrow evening. But I am afraid, I have no idea how to proceed with that and what is deemed as acceptable.”

"There isn't anything to consider, Cassie. You just request a carriage for the time you need and leave. Nobody will ask you questions, and even if they did, they wouldn't bat an eyelid about you visiting a brothel," Balt explained, returning to his perch beside the hearth. 

Castiel sat forward in his chair, a look of disbelief on his face, "Just like that? No questions asked, no shame to our Kingdom?" 

"Just like that," Balthazar replied, accentuating each word. "If you desire to start gallivanting, nobody will protest. Well,” he snickered, “maybe Princess Margot will."

Dread settled at the bottom of his stomach. Surely, if a member of the French royalty opposed to him visiting Dior, the others would follow? Was he doomed to never see the omega again? No, even if he had to sneak around as he did in his explorations, they would meet again. Not seeing Dior was  _ not  _ an option. 

"If the Royal Family won't approve then I will just sneak out," Castiel voiced his thoughts out loud. "They do not need to know."

"The Royal Family won't give a bloody damn what you do, Cassie. I just meant - oh, nevermind. It doesn't matter. You don't need to sneak around, just do what I said and you'll be dandy." 

Choosing to trust his friend, the prince relaxes. There was still one problem . . . Tomorrow was very, very far away.

**XXX**

The carriage stopped in front of a three-story townhouse, close to the outskirts of Paris. It looked well kept, though the paint was peeling in places. Nightfall had settled a couple hours ago and the gas-run streetlights illuminated it, giving the whole street a homely atmosphere in the stark winter cold. There were people still milling about the road, heads hunched inside their scarves or coat lapels. 

Overall, it did not seem like an unsavory neighbourhood, which gave Castiel great relief regarding Dior’s safety.

The prince deboarded the carriage. With a curt farewell to the driver, he made his way up the few steps to the front door. He only hesitated for a moment before opening the door and entering the establishment. 

He was immediately hit by a wave of warmth, not unwelcomed. Castiel cast about a brief, perfunctory look. The foyer was clean and sparsely decorated. It had a sophisticated feel to it - tall ceilings, off-white walls, gold detailing, plants in the corners of the room and next to the door, and a plush carpet occupying half the floor. What was most impressive, however, was the large desk before the doorway, built of ebony wood and polished to such a standard that light bounced off it. 

A short, slightly portly man sat in the lush chair behind it. Alpha, Castiel noticed. Garbed in a fashionable dark suit and staring at Castiel expectantly. 

“ _ Bienvenue à Sérendipité, monsieur _ !” the man greeted in unaccented French. “ _ Mon nom est Crowley. Je ne vous ai pas vu auparavant, donc je suppose que c'est votre première visite chez nous? _ ”

This must have been the bawd with the very English name, then. “ _ C'est ma première visite. Parlez-vous Anglais, monsieur Crowley? _ ” the prince asks, more out of curiosity than for convenience.

To the man’s credit, he did not hesitate before switching. “Yes, I do. I must inform you that most of our omegas do not, however,” he replied, an obvious English accent now audible. So, Castiel had been right. 

“That will not be a problem. I was merely curious whether this establishment was indeed led by an Englishman.” Castiel said, belatedly realising it might not be the right thing to say.

Crowley, however, seemed amused. “Scottish, actually. But I suppose my accent has mellowed out after many, many years.”

“It must be tiring, not speaking your mother tongue often.”

“It makes no difference to me, sir,” Crowley stated, nonplussed. “Now, how may I help? Would you like to see our catalog or do you already have someone in mind?”

“I actually have an appointment between five and eight with Dior,” he stated, taking his gloves off but keeping hold of them. Castiel briefly wondered what he could possibly see in a catalog but felt no need to ask out loud. 

Crowley opened a big leather tome and made short work of it. “Ah yes. James, was it?”

“That is right.”

“Very well. The total for this visit is 75 francs and payment is upfront. There are a few basic rules, of course. Do not incapacitate the omega in any way. They all know their limits so what they say, goes. If anything goes wrong during your visit, you are liable to pay a damage fee to cover medical expenses and the time off required. If you wish to extend your visit, that can only be done if the omega isn’t already booked. No visits extend after eleven o’clock. If you are happy with those terms, please sign next to your name here,” the alpha informs him in a breath, with an ease that comes from repeating the same thing constantly.

It all made Castiel uneasy. Again, he did not speak his mind out loud. He paid the bawd and signed his name in the book. He was instructed to head to the last floor, knock on the double door and wait to be let in. The prince thanked the alpha and made his way up the spiral staircase in the corner of the foyer.

With every step he took, his nervousness amplified. But he did not halt, excitement thrumming all the way to his fingertips. Would Dior be happy to see him? He did tell him where and how to find him, but maybe he had shared out of politeness. He could only hope that his visit would be well received.

The top floor was decorated in much the same manner as the ground floor. There were two doors but only one of them a double. Castiel stopped before it, trying to regulate his breathing. He patted his inner pocket gingerly, just to check that the little box was still in its place and hoping that he would not be overstepping.

He gave two cursory raps and waited, as instructed. After what felt like eons but could not have been longer than mere seconds, the door swung open.

The sight that greeted him, however, took a few years off the alpha’s life.

“Good afternoon, my lord,” Dior greeted in perfect, clear English. A coquettish smile was pinned on his face, body leaning on the doorframe and his hip subtly jutting to the side.

He was dressed in a light blue silk nightshirt that gleamed in the candlelight. It appeared to be sheer enough that Castiel was able to discern the omega’s body with the light illuminating him in an almost ethereal glow. Shamefully, he allowed his gaze to drag itself lower, only to stop breathing when he realised that the man was not wearing any trousers underneath, his bare feet resting elegantly on the wooden floor. 

The omega’s scent seemed to be wafting in waves, more potent than he remembered it being the other night. It shook him down to the bones, his knees giving a worrying wobble as the cinnamon and whiskey melded into each other, settling on his tongue, thick and vivid. 

A sharp inhale brought his attention back to Dior, who seemed to be just as stunned as the prince. Did he also manage to make his way all the way here in his pajamas? Surely Crowley would not have allowed him entrance if that was the case. It was an extraordinarily daft thought, of course, but his brain refused to cooperate and stopped working altogether.

They stared at each other, a heavy weight between the two of them. Before Castiel could redeem himself as the gentleman he was, Dior beat him to it.

“ _ Votre Altesse, _ ” he said, voice small, soft as he switched to French. “What a great pleasure to see you. Are you the James I’m waiting for?”

“I- Yes. You speak English?” Castiel replied and immediately wanted to bash his head against the wall.  _ Of  _ course _ , he bloody well speaks English. He just did, you muttonhead! _

Dior blinked a couple of times as if scrutinising his unintelligent question. “I do, Your Highness. Quite comfortably, actually. Would you prefer me to, during your visit?” he finally said, switching back to English.

“Whatever is most comfortable for you, Dior,” Castiel replied, thanking the Heavens above his wits were coming back to him.

The omega gave him another bright smile and stepped to the side of the door. “English will do fine, then. Please, come in, Your Highness.”

Castiel did as was told, heart racing loudly enough he worried it could be heard. Dior showed him to a comfortable loveseat in front of a roaring fireplace, but stopped him before he could sit down.

The omega walked right in front of him and started to undo his coat buttons, focusing on them as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. Castiel was hyper-aware of every brush, every stroke of the man’s hands on the fabric, the way his fingers dragged across and appeared to leave behind sparks of thunder - all the while watching the content expression on Dior’s face.

“It can get very warm in here, very quickly,” Dior states, throwing him a small glance between his eyelashes before returning to his task. “You will be a lot more comfortable without it, Your Highness.” 

Castiel wanted to say something, anything, but all he could muster was a weak nod of his head and a smile he hoped came across as kind. He had a feeling it came out more like a grimace. Dior was gracious enough not to bring his awkwardness to attention.

With the task of undoing the buttons, the omega brought his palms up to where his neck met his shoulders, and, ever so slowly, dragged his coat off with an air of breath-stopping confidence. He did not know how everything about this man could be so enchanting, but the prince continued to be left in awe. 

He watched the taller man take his gloves, put them in his coat’s pocket and carry them to the wardrobe. He hung the piece of clothing carefully, as if handling a precious treasure.

Then Dior made his way back to him and sat on the loveseat, patting the remaining space. “Have a seat, Your Highness. I chose it myself; it’s very comfortable.”

Again, Castiel did as he was told. He took a look around the room, noting the spacious chamber with its sturdy furnishings, soft rug and ivory bathtub. It all looked very chic, much to the prince’s happiness. This was not what he had expected of rooms in such an establishment. The most remarkable aspect about this room, however, was the sizable round window overlooking Paris against the starry sky. It was a lovely sight.

“You have a very welcoming room,” Castiel said slowly, taking his hat off and keeping it in his lap, unsure whether that was the right thing to say.

“Thank you. It’s the second biggest advantage of being  _ very  _ good at what I do,” Dior replied, bringing one of his legs underneath himself, exposing a considerable amount of thigh.

Castiel’s mouth went very dry and his collar started to feel constricting. He avoided looking at the omega’s legs and cleared his throat. “Second biggest?”

“The biggest being I can pick and choose my companions, of course.” Dior shrugged slightly and blinked - almost calculating - but no less enthralling. 

“I feel very honoured to know you have picked me, then.” 

A ridiculously endearing chuckle escaped the omega, his eyes softening. “That is very kind of you to say, Your Highness, but it really is me who should say that.” Dior scooted slightly closer to Castiel, maintained eye contact, making the alpha wonder yet again what the most appropriate adjective would be to describe those endless, green pools.

“I have looked forward to visiting you ever since the ball,” Castiel blurted out. “I have done a bit of research after our conversation that night and I believe to be prepared adequately in order to not disappoint today.” 

It was true. He had taken advantage of the palace’s library and found an extensive book on parlour games meant for etiquette lessons. He had read up on chess and other board games particularly, but not too much that there would be nothing left to teach him. Just enough for him not to make a fool of himself. 

Dior went strangely quiet, his breathing appearing slowed down and the cinnamon suddenly sweetening. Castiel clicked his jaw unconsciously, fists tightening on his lap.

“Is that so, my Prince?” Dior said, sliding close enough now that a bent knee barely grazed his own thigh. “And what...  _ games _ , did you have in mind?”

Hearing the omega address Castiel as ‘my Prince’ did strange things to him. His muscles went rigid and an unknown heat spread from his stomach through his chest, and down to his toes. 

Barely suppressing a possessive growl - because Castiel was  _ not _ feral - he found his voice to reply, thankfully unwavering, “Well, you looked to be quite content playing chess so I thought… maybe we could start with that?”

Dior’s scent immediately clears up - mostly leaving a refreshing breeze of winter behind - at the same time he backs up further down the sofa and away from the alpha. He was starting to gnaw on his lower lip, looking weirdly torn between amusement and confusion. Had Castiel misunderstood? Was he not partial to chess?

“Do you not enjoy chess? We could always play Checkers?” Castiel offered, desperate to fix his fumble.

“No, no, Your Highness. Chess is absolutely fine,” Dior replied, sitting up and immediately putting on a dressing gown, tying it tightly around his waist, movements oddly stiff. “Allow me to grab my set.”

“Certainly.”

Dior went over to his bed and crouched, grabbing a wooden box from under the bed. It only took a moment for him to find what he was looking for. He pushed the box back under the bed and made his way back to Castiel. The chess set looked well-loved and used, proof that the omega did indeed enjoy playing. 

“Do you know how to set it up, Your Highness?” he asked Castiel.

When Castiel nodded his affirmation, Dior asked him to set it up whilst he brought the chair in front of the desk to sit on one end of the oval coffee table. “This will make for easier conversation, rather than both of us sitting on the sofa,” the omega explained. 

Castiel set up the pieces to the best of his ability whilst Dior collected the hat from his lap and put it on his desk. His excitement returned stronger than before, an almost giddy feeling at the prospect of spending time with the man. 

“Is this adequate?” He asks when he’s finished and is pleased to find Dior sitting with his legs crossed, his elbow resting on the top one, head in hand, and a small smile playing on his lips. 

“A job well done, Your Highness.” 

As it stands, Castiel does not have any real qualms about being addressed with his title. However . . . 

“Would you mind using my name instead?” Castiel chanced. “When in personal company, I much prefer less decorum. If you are comfortable with that, of course.”

The omega nodded, smile still in place. “Of course. Will it be James or Castiel?”

The prince could feel his ears heat up with embarrassment. “Castiel, please. I only used James in my letter because I was not sure what the appropriate course of action was.” He felt silly for worrying about such a thing now after Balthazar had been obnoxious and chastised him for being too uptight. 

“I was wondering about that. I was most definitely not expecting you,” he said. “But what a pleasant surprise you were, indeed, Castiel.” 

A surge of happiness bubbled in him as quickly as the fastest steed back home. Hearing his given name on the omega’s lips was so much more wonderful than he had expected. It sounded right and he wished to hear it over and over again. If he was honest, it had felt like another layer had been shed between them, the feeling of closeness intensified. 

Castiel smiled at the omega, hoping his joy was properly conveyed. “It is a pleasure to be here.”

They started the game amicably, Dior was pleased to see he had the basics down. As the game progressed, the omega gave him pointers, instructions and explanations much like he had had when playing poker. By the time they were halfway through the game, Castiel had already learned several novel strategies to employ. 

He was having more fun than he has had in ages, which had more to do with the company - rather than the game itself. Watching the man in front of him, the scent of cinnamon and whiskey and snow emanating from him, it was quite clear that the omega was happy. 

Castiel had now come to realize that the slight nuances he could smell from the omega were his moods and feelings. Scientifically, it did not make much sense. It was mostly supposed to be a phenomenon amongst family members whose smells were intricately connected with each other, both by nature and nurture. 

He was content to let it be real, a blessing he had not expected, but embraced. Castiel’s inner alpha might have had something to do with his easy approval. It was not often he felt connected to it - as his family liked to remind him - but ever since meeting Dior, they had affixed to each other smoothly and in unison. The prince used to scoff at people who talked about a sense of calm that peaceful co-existence with their inner wolves provided. Now that he was starting to experience it for himself, he felt foolish for ever doubting it. It was very uplifting. 

“You’re a very fast learner, Castiel. I noticed that at poker as well. I fear you might surpass me sooner rather than later,” Dior says, bringing Castiel back from his reverie.

“I have an awfully skilled teacher,” the alpha replied, moving another of his knights. 

Dior chuckled and moved a rook, “If you’d be so kind as to tell that to my fellow omegas here, I’d appreciate it.”

“I would be amenable to that, of course,” Castiel smiled. “As I said, it is a shame they do not share your enthusiasm.”

“They’ve got other things they would rather do. We all care about each other but rarely share interests.”

“Ah, yes. I can empathise with that,” Castiel chuckled, moving yet another piece. “My closest friend and I are so very different, yet we make it work. I would not trade his mischievous ways for anything.”

Dior takes a few moments to think about his next move, “Was that the blonde man who was with you the other night?”

Castiel looked at the omega, surprised. He can’t recall being in Balthazar’s proximity for more than a few minutes whilst in the same room with Dior. “Yes, that was Balthazar. Very well remembered.”

The prince would swear Dior’s cheeks turn rosy, freckles immediately prominent. How absolutely endearing! Besides the redness, the omega seemed completely unruffled. 

“I apologise if I made you uncomfortable. I’m just very good with faces,” Dior said, averting his eyes.

“No, no. Not at all!” Castiel hurried to assure him. “I am merely impressed. I am quite bad with faces and names myself. I need someone to leave an impression on me one way or another for me to distinguish them,” he chuckled, remembering the many blank looks he had received upon misnaming someone. 

“I suppose you meet a lot of people daily. That’s a lot of faces to remember,” Dior replied, moving a bishop. Castiel groaned at the satisfied smirk on the man’s face. “Checkmate, Your Highness.”

“Castiel,” he reminded. He leant back on the sofa and gathered his hands in his lap. “Well played, Dior. I must say, I did not ever think I stood a chance.”

Dior laughed and started to rearrange the board. “You put up a good fight. I enjoyed myself immensely.” He looked up through his eyelashes, a small, shy smile playing on his lips. Castiel could not help his lingering gaze.

They played a few more games of chess, both of which ran long as Dior continued to tutor him. Castiel was happy to let him. The omega was plainly relishing in teaching someone the ins and outs of chess, with bits of history peppered through.

He had extensive knowledge, and not just about parlour games, a fact that had become glaringly obvious with more time spent in his presence. Castiel had realised very early on that Dior was both clever and charming. 

After their third chess match, Dior put the game away and brought up some tea and biscuits. They still had thirty minutes until Castiel was due to leave. Disappointment slowly trickled into the pit of his stomach. Time had gone too fast and he now wished he had asked for more.

Dior sat back at the other end of the sofa, legs neatly in front of him this time. “I have recently been lent a few books and amongst them was  _ ‘History of Blood Bonds: A Hematological Study’ _ . I’ve only read about a quarter of it but it seems promising. The first part of it extensively details how our scents could very well be defined by our blood. The author speculates it could, at the very least, heavily correlate since our scents become enhanced with elevated or lowered heartbeat, and the amount of white or blood cells we produce,” he explained, the cinnamon scent ebbing out with waves of excitement and making Castiel dizzy. 

It was intoxicating in the best way possible. He merely remained seated, cup nestled in his hands and eyes trained on the omega, content to listen and admire him. The light from the fireplace danced on his skin and shone in his eyes. Night had long since descended, dark navy sky visible from the round window. It was all so… intimate and comfortable that Castiel was positive he would have no problems drifting to sleep right then and there. Instead, though, he remained upright and watched the bright young man.

Dior stopped talking and brought a leg up under himself - just like he had the first time they’d sat down - and leaned even further back into the sofa cushions. It took a moment for Castiel to realise he was not resuming his conversation, and he instantly missed the sound of his voice.

“Is everything alright, Dior?” he asked.

Dior regarded him with a neutral expression, gaze unwavering but not cold, a ghost of a smile present. “Yes. You’ve gone very quiet and I was afraid I had started to bore you. I know this must not be impressive or new knowledge for you and yet I allowed myself to ramble.” 

He bit his lip and his lovely fingers fidgeted nervously in the little alcove created by his legs. His scent no longer reminded him of baked pastry, having taken a sharp turn towards the whiskey tones of his scent.

“Absolutely not, it is all extremely compelling. I did not mean to give you that impression. I just enjoyed listening to you talk about it so,” Castiel said, slightly confused as to why the omega would ever think a subject such as hematology could be boring. He has read a good deal of scientific books, papers, and articles himself and is convinced that if he would try to bring it up in conversation with most people, he would be met with polite indifference. “I am deeply impressed with your knowledge. Reading scientific journals is a hobby of mine and I am elated to be able to discuss such topics with you, Dior.”

The omega flushed, his skin now an impressive shade of red. And yet, he was still avoiding Castiel’s eyes. Had he offended him? “I did not mean to cause offense by not replying. Please, forgive me,” he beseeched, hoping he had not ruined the evening with his tactlessness.

Dior finally met his gaze, face no less red - but still so adorable. “You don’t need to placate me, Castiel. It’s fine.”

Dior got up from the sofa before Castiel could deny lying to him, his confusion no more abated. Was he simply jesting or did the omega sincerely think it was no great feat to be so knowledgeable?

“I’m afraid our time is up, Your Highness. I hope you had a lovely evening?” he asked.

Castiel got up as well, feeling desolate at the turn the night had taken. He still was unsure about what it was that had caused a chill to settle between them. He would have to ask Balthazar - the more socially cultivated one. His friend was bound to have  _ some  _ sort of answer.

“It exceeded all expectations. Thank you for having me,” Castiel told him earnestly.

The omega went over to the wardrobe and took his coat out carefully. He handed over his gloves first, followed by his coat, and finally, his hat - all whilst patiently watching Castiel. 

Once dressed, they stood there in silence, simply looking at each other. Away from the open flame, Dior’s features no longer seemed soft, but masculine and sharp, shadows falling in all the right places and light caressing all high places of his features. He was a vision.

Castiel coughed. “Well. I suppose this is goodnight.” 

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Dior averted his eyes and walked to the door, opening only one of them this time and waiting patiently for him to make his way over.

Castiel stopped right before exiting and faced the omega once more. He slipped his hand inside of his coat and made to grab for the box nestled in his inside pocket, but did not make a move to bring it out.

“I… I hope I am not overstepping my boundaries with you, Dior. I am afraid I do not know what is appropriate and what is not in these situations. I am aware I am… lacking, in regards to social behaviours or expectations so I hope it is alright for me to give you this.”

He took out the little cream box and held it out to the omega, “I prepared this for you. I hope you can accept it.”

Dior opened his mouth in a small gasp and slowly took the box from him, eyes affixed on the gold ribbon on top. He was carding the parcel in his hands ever-so-gently, a finger brushing over it. 

The omega snapped his gaze back onto him, surprising Castiel. “Is it really alright for me to accept this?” he asked, gazed focused and brows slightly raised.

“Of course. I got it for you.”

“Then I will happily accept this. Thank you, Castiel.” 

The prince smiled widely, happy to know he had not accidentally offended the omega… yet again. He just hoped he would still like it once opened.

Castiel promised to come again, though he couldn’t estimate when. Dior assured him that he would always be welcome. Castiel took off his hat and bowed in adieu. Only after the door closed, taking the young man away, did he allow himself to descend the stairs.

The evening might have become tense for a short while, but he believed the present had been a good diffuser. He had fun and Dior did not seem completely opposed to his company.

The prince had no idea when he would be able to come back and he was already aching with longing. With every step, his anxiety grew. His schedule would be swamped for a while. But maybe he could sneak away a few hours between obligations? The  _ maison  _ was quite a distance from the palace and it would make his window of opportunity very narrow . . .

Crowley was not in the foyer when he reached the exit. Unsure whether he had to check out or anything, he waited by the desk. Thankfully, it wasn’t long until the bawd returned. 

Informed that he did not need to check out, he took his leave. The bawd went back to his books and Castiel . . . Well, Castiel would spend most of his time daydreaming about the beautiful man that resided on the top floor.


End file.
